Émigré
by Indignant Lemur
Summary: A tear in the fabric of space and time has consequences that echo across ages; an unexpected arrival from the twenty-first century challenges a nation's perceptions and sets a most unlikely precedent. An exploration of Andorian culture from a Human's POV.
1. Settling In

Title: Émigré  
><span>Summary<span>: A tear in the fabric of space and time has consequences that echo across ages; one unexpected arrival from the twenty-first century challenges a nation's perceptions, and sets a most unlikely precedent. An exploration into Andorian culture from a Human perspective.  
><span>Warnings<span>: Violence, coarse language, some mature themes.

**Preface:**  
>The premise of this story follows a challenge I received on LJ. The prompt: take the "girl transported to another world" cliche and do something new with it."<p>

Additionally, several conditions were set: the fic must be in the Star Trek universe (any series or movie); it must be multi-chaptered (minimum 10 chapters); it must feature an alien race species other than Vulcans (for example, Andorians or Denobulans); it must expand upon canon details of this race (culture, language, etc.); it must have a well-developed OC, or set of OCs; it must not have a Canon/OC pairing; the OC must not be a Mary Sue/Gary Stu."

Thus, this story is not only a slightly different twist on the standard cliché, but it a creative look at the Andorians in terms of biology and culture. Given that there is so little canonical information about the Andorians –and I regard the novels as soft-canon at best- I felt that it would be an interesting exercise to fill in the gaps with a few ideas of my own. Furthermore, I was bitterly disappointed with the ending of the series (as most fans were) and I wish to try and correct some of that.

So, this story will feature a hint of travel, Andorians, Humans, the odd Tellerite, Vulcans, Denobulans, Orions and Romulans thrown in with a little bit of intrigue, a tiny bit of murder, a dollop of good old-fashioned espionage, a spoonful of romance, and a dollop or two of action. Some of the canon cast from Enterprise will pop up, but they are not the primary focus of this story. Rather, this story focuses on the concept of a Human interacting with and observing Andorian culture first-hand, and eventually integrating into it.

* * *

><p><strong>ONE: Settling In<strong>

"Good morning!"

Several sets of antennae wiggled politely in her direction as Dagmar entered the Andorian section of the newly set up Embassy and shivered in response to the considerable drop in temperature. A few of the Andorians more accustomed to Human interactions offered nods along with their wiggly-antennae greetings, and a few even murmured "Thiptho lapth" at her in characteristically soft and faintly sibilant voices–a common Andorian greeting.

She was never going to get used to those antennae, Dagmar thought to herself as she stepped into a turbo lift.

Well, to be honest, she was probably never going to get used to a lot of things about this time. Two hundred years had changed _so much_, between the stupid, needless wars and humanity's first contact with an alien species to humans making leaps and bounds in technological advancement, Dagmar more often than not felt overwhelmed by the enormity of the paradigm shift she was trying to adjust to.

Her studies at the Academy helped –they gave her something to focus on when the rest of the world was filled with too many sights and too much noise. Amidst her floundering attempt to integrate into this newer Human –Terran- society, a gift for languages came to light, even when her grasp on the more scientific side of things was... somewhat less than tenuous at the best of times. Whenever the Canadian began to feel stressed or about to slip into another bout of culture shock, which happened distressingly often, she would retreat into her studies and focus the majority of her energy there.

Her professors loved her for it, but her social life suffered significantly. Dagmar figured that, given that she had so much trouble relating to modern Terrans anyway, she was probably better off focusing on her studies over people anyway. She'd told one of her professors, a Vulcan xenobiologist by the name of Varek, as much. The Vulcan's response had been... surprising.

"_Humans are social creatures by nature and function poorly when isolated for any period of time. Your inability to relate to your classmates is irrelevant –as a Human, you _must_ have social interaction. There are many other cadets who are also far from their homes and suffer similar transitional difficulties. I would recommend speaking to one such student."_

A sort of subtle Vulcan way of telling her to get her shit together and grab a random alien cadet for coffee, Dagmar remembered fondly. She was quite fond of Varek (who held the dubious honour of being one of her first aliens) in a distant, mentor-student sort of way, and kept loosely in contact with him despite no longer taking many of his classes. Varek had been instrumental in Dagmar's adjustment to the whole aliens-exist-and-they-really-_do_-have-flying-saucers thing, and the redhead wasn't about to forget it.

So, she'd taken his advice, although very reluctantly, and had struck up a conversation with an Andorian cadet in a bar that was popular with the student body. Dagmar rarely went to bars, even today, but not because of any form of culture shock –even in the twenty-first century, she hadn't been fond of pubs and bars, if only because of her introverted personality. Still, the Canadian had done it, if only because she respected Varek immensely, and had profited from the experience immeasurably.

As it turned out, the Andorian cadet was not a cadet at all, but an aide to the Andorian ambassador who was having trouble finding a satisfactorily accomplished xenolinguist. Apparently, they had been hiring and dismissing translators with alarming rapidity lately. Dagmar had sympathized, commenting that some of her classmates spent more time partying than actually studying languages and accomplishing the things they went to the Academy to do. Apparently, that happened to be exactly the right thing to say to the Andorian, and the two became tentative friends.

His name... well, Andorians had painfully long names, and Dagmar could only really recall the first name she'd been given, Theb, but she was fairly certain his clan name was Hrisvalar. Maybe. Possibly.

God knows.

Regardless, that encounter had been four years ago, and, with some reluctant (and often curt) guidance from Theb, Dagmar had become fluent in Andorii –though, Theb lamented the faint regional accent she'd picked up from her linguistics professor. Additionally, she had also picked up a dialect or two of Klingon as well as some of the Tellerite language. Her Vulcan was reasonably fluent, but not formal, however, and she could find no one willing to teach her any so-called "High Vulcan" –at least, no one in Starfleet.

When she felt she was fluent enough, and had earned a degree in xenolinguistics, she had contacted Theb to see if the situation had changed. Theb had left the Embassy in favour of joining the Imperial Guard, but informed her that the situation was much the same as before. More importantly, though, Theb happened to have a clan member in the Embassy who had an interest in finding a new translator.

Thus, Dagmar Gunnarssen, much to the surprise of her counsellor and several naysayers, became an employee of the Embassy. It was a minor position, supporting the Embassy's main translator and running errands, but it was more than quite a few had expected from the twenty-first century woman. Varek, older-than-dirt and eternally composed as the Vulcan always was, had merely raised an eyebrow and offered his felicitations upon hearing the news, but Dagmar was almost positive she'd earned a tiny, fractional twitch of a Vulcan smile. Either that, or she'd been imaging it.

A pressurized hiss heralded her arrival to her designated floor and the twin doors slide open almost soundlessly. As Dagmar stepped out of the turbolift and onto the third floor, she nodded to an Andorian female (whose name she had yet to learn) and received a polite antennae wiggle in response. By that point, the cold was starting to get to the Canadian woman, so she set off at a brisk pace to find Ambassador Thoris. The Andorian Ambassador was on Earth temporarily to discuss some sort of trade issue on neutral ground with the Tellerite Ambassador –apparently, what was being traded was not _quite_ what had been negotiated.

As the redheaded woman passed down the hallway, she made a point of waving and calling out greetings through the open office doors of each employee she passed. Andorians had a funny habit of not having doors, which went along with their lack of a concept of personal space and nudity taboos –something which had caused the Canadian no end of mortification and placed her in a number of awkward situations; apparently, Earth's climate was unreasonably hot, even with the cooling systems in the Embassy running on their maximum settings day in and day out.

Finally reaching the largest office on the floor, Dagmar slowed her pace and, with a wry smile, rapped her knuckles against the doorframe.

The older Andorian male behind the large desk didn't look up from the PADD he was reading, but his antennae flicked in her direction and, with a negligent wave of his hand, Ambassador Thoris beckoned her over. Wordlessly, Dagmar approached the Ambassador's desk, nodding politely at Shral, one of the aides, as she passed, and waited to be acknowledged. Given that Thoris was a typical Andorian and given that he seriously outranked her, Dagmar figured that meant that she would be waiting for quite some time. Something about tolerance of arrogance as a sign of respect... Dagmar tended to find the displays a bit tedious, but she never outright complained –to do so would be unforgivably rude, and Andorians were very, very, _very_ touchy about manners.

The twenty-first century woman took the time to observe the Ambassador and his aide, as well as the office itself. She didn't interact with the Ambassador directly, usually, but her superior –a Ms. Savannah White- had called in sick with some alien flu or another, along with most of the other human employees. It was just as well that Dagmar had an immune system made of steel –otherwise, the Ambassador and his aides might have to deal with the Tellerite embassy _themselves_ and the Tellerites were in a collectively foul mood that day. Apparently, for them, it was entirely _too_ cold and they were taking it out on just about anyone within their line of sight.

Ambassador Thoris was not what Dagmar would ever consider attractive, regardless of species. She found his features were a bit too broad and rough-hewn, as it were, and his arrogance was bordering on appalling at the best of times. Age was also a factor, Dagmar supposed, and god only knew how old Thoris was –but he was a competent Ambassador and a skilled politician. He also had a very no-nonsense attitude towards negotiations, which Dagmar approved of –especially since it cut down on the amount of useless waffling she had to translate for the Tellerites, who specialized in producing an abundance of it. His sense of humour, if he had one, was incomprehensible for the most part –and Dagmar suspected the feeling was quite mutual.

Shral, Theb's fellow clansmen and also the one to recommend hiring Dagmar, also possessed the typical Andorian arrogance and curt behaviour, but to a lesser degree. His features were sharper, more angular, and, once she got past the species thing, Dagmar supposed he was fairly handsome... except that his antennae freaked her out. Whenever he was in the same room at her, his antennae pointed directly at her and _stayed that way_ –and not just in a politely interested manner, like most of her blue-skinned coworkers, but in a creepy I'm-_intensely_-interested-in-anything-you-might-possibly-be-doing-at-any-given-point-in-time sort of way. It was weird, and Dagmar couldn't tell if it was a threat or not. No one else did it and Dagmar had no idea if she was supposed to _ask_ someone about it, but there it was.

Shral caught her eye as he stepped forward to place a PADD on the Ambassador's desk (the Ambassador was _still_ ignoring her), and his antennae were doing that creepy pointing thing again. Dagmar realized she must have zoned out and, sparing Shral's antennae a wary glance, refocused on the Ambassador.

And waited.

And waited.

God, this was boring. Dagmar had to fight not to fidget, and instead studied the room. Whoever had decorated the place had had ice planets on the brain; everything was painted various shades of cool beiges, whites, faint blues, and greys, with the odd touch of black or brown. Whoever had been contracted to decorate the place probably hadn't known much about Andorians; ironically, they were rather fond of bright, vibrant colours –particularly when they clashed.

Various weapons decorated the walls of the Ambassador's office, including one that was supposed to be an ice-pick of some sort but looked like anything but. Additionally, there were a number of spears and swords of varying designs, as well as shields and things that looked like arm-guards attached at the wrist by some sort of cord.

"See something interesting?" A thin, reedy voice cut in, amused. Dagmar started before realizing that the Ambassador had spoken, and had probably been waiting for _her_ to acknowledge _him_ for at least a few minutes now. Crap. "You are _not_ Miss White."

She coloured, embarrassed, and apologized as calmly as the unhappy squirming in her bellow allowed. "I'm sorry, sir, I was admiring your weapons collection. Miss White and Mister Jones are both ill, unfortunately. I'm apparently the only translator who speaks Andorian and Tellerite fluently and isn't sick." –and, feeling awkward, she added, "It's a beautiful collection, sir."

In hindsight, that just made things _more_ awkward.

"It is a _functional_ collection." The Ambassador told her, antennae flicking in irritation but quite not rearing back in outright anger.

Dagmar felt her face drain slightly of colour instinctively and swallowed reflexively. "That's usually the best kind, sir. I never saw much point in ornamental weapons."

Shral, in her peripheral vision, was apparently having a hey-day off to the side with the way his antennae were twigging out. Dagmar opted not to pay too much attention to the aide, lest she start freaking out too. Grumpy Andorians tended to be _violent_ Andorians, after all, and all Shral and his creepy antennae were doing was making her nervous.

Her answer, however, seemed to puzzle the older Andorian, enough to pause the agitated flicking of his diminishing antennae and curve them forward in curiosity. "Do you collect weapons as well, then?"

Shifting her weight and suppressing a slight shiver from the cold, the twenty-first century woman answered wryly, "I used to."

She ignored the sharp, nostalgic pang the memory brought her. She'd been an avid weapons collector –armour as well- back in the twenty-first century. Her father had started her off with a Roman short sword and the casual hobby had blossomed into a full-on favourite pastime. When she'd first gone to college, Dagmar had been distressed to learn that she couldn't take any of her collection with her –even if the university _had_ allowed it, her mother certainly wouldn't have.

Outside of her personal bubble, the Andorian Ambassador had decided that the redheaded female wasn't going to volunteer any more information, had moved onto business. "What do you have for me, then...?"

The Canadian opened her mouth to reply, by Shral beat her to it.

"Dagmar Gunnarssen, Ambassador –a translator." Shral volunteered, and, damn it, his antennae were doing that _thing_ again. The redhead opted to deliberately avoid eye contact and not think about it, but she didn't miss the way the Ambassador's mouth twitched ever-so-slightly into something vaguely resembling a Human smile.

Whatever the hell _that_ meant.

There wasn't much to add to Shral's statement, so Dagmar settled for nodding and handing the Ambassador the PADD she'd brought. With the PADD delivered and the cold beginning to get to her, Dagmar was regretting her decision to not bring a sweater with her. Ordinarily, she preferred the cold –she was from the upper west coast of Canada, after all- but she had adapted to the weather in San Francisco over the last few years.

As soon as the Ambassador dismissed her, with a new PADD to deliver to a Tellerite official (which then, presumably, would be passed on to the Tellerite Ambassador) Dagmar had to refrain from bolting out of the room towards warmer climates and less unsettling antennae.


	2. Trigger

**TWO: Trigger**

Dagmar groaned, alternating between massaging her temples and pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead in a hopeless attempt to alleviate her headache.

"Here." A voice, soft and sibilant and such a _nice_ change from the shouting and snarling of the Tellerite section of the Embassy. Blearily, Dagmar looked up at the speaker, raising her head from her hands. It was Thelen, a relatively young security officer assigned to the Andorian ambassador. His antennae wiggled at her as he bowed from the shoulders upon her acknowledgement of him; not an affectionate greeting, by any standards, but friendly enough.

The almost reflexive reaction to cringe at the antennae-gesture was absent not because she was especially fond of the Andorian, but because she was _exhausted_.

The redhead accepted the cloth with a weary smile. A hypospray would have been more effective, but Dagmar didn't like those –there was something very unsettling about them. Still, it helped. Combine that with the cooler temperature and the utterly blissful silence of the Andorian section of the Embassy, and Dagmar had found her own personal patch of heaven. She didn't rise from her seated position on the floor in the lobby area, back against a cool, pale beige wall and legs bent at the knees so her elbows could rest on them. Instead, she motioned for Thelen to join her, since he was off-duty by that point (the Tellerites had kept her long past nightfall with their enraged complaints and rants) and the security officer obliged her.

The Embassy was all but deserted, save for a few aides who were working overtime, and there was no one to stare.

"You were gone longer than usual this time." Thelen commented as he made himself comfortable to her right. The Andorian knew most of her work-relating comings and goings, if only because they were repetitive and consistent... especially so, when Ms. White was hounding her. He noticed when you routine varied by so much as five minutes –which lead Dagmar to the conclusion that the Andorian had entirely too much time on his hands.

She'd spoken to Thelen a few times in the past and had grown fond of the Andorian. He was curious about Terran customs and, between the pair of them, he and Dagmar had managed to puzzle out most of the newer, post-twenty-first-century customs. More often than not, the Canadian had found herself comparing new customs with the older ones that she was more familiar with, speculating on the reasons for the changes and debating the merit of either adapting or retaining the older pattern of behaviour. Thelen's contribution to those debates was never particularly paradigm-shifting, but he appeared to enjoy listening to them.

... He reminded her of her brother; thoughtful and clever. Something in her ribcage constricted at the thought, a sharp ache that made her eyes sting.

Dagmar didn't bother to hide her grimace as she confessed, "They might just drive me to suicide at this rate." –Dagmar turned the damp cloth over when one side grew too warm and resettled it against the back of her neck- "They've started to team up on me, now! They don't look that scary at first, but when you have five tearing into you at once, it's downright _frightening_."

The twenty-first-century woman made no secret of her inability to understand or relate to Tellerites. Having been raised with a very Scandinavian slant on her upbringing, Dagmar had always placed a great deal of emphasis on good manners and etiquette –the exact opposite of Tellerite behaviour- and the Tellerite custom of greeting someone by insulting them never failed to rub her the wrong way. It didn't matter that, intellectually, she knew the shorter aliens were trying to be polite –the whole thing still upset her.

Thelen's antennae bowed towards each other in a display of amusement, and he adopted a facsimile of a Human smile, or at least as much of one as he could, given that Andorian facial muscles were not as extensive or developed as a Human's were. The effect the expression had on the narrow features of his face was... odd, to say the least, but Dagmar never said anything about it. She was just glad that someone made an effort to meet her halfway when it came to communicating. "Should I arrange an escort for you?"

His sense of humour was improving, too, the Canadian noted absent-mindedly. Or, rather, his attempts at Terran humour were, which most Andorians found incomprehensible. Whereas Terran humour ranged from slapstick to clever plays on words and self-depreciating jabs, Andorian humour tended to be extremely subtle, relying on a complex set of propositional grammars. Despite her best efforts, Dagmar couldn't quite grasp their sense of humour –but she did, at least, learn to recognize when an Andorian was making a joke.

Of course, all of the Andorians knew she didn't find their humour particularly funny, but they all seemed to have an unspoken agreement that, so long as the Canadian acknowledged the attempt and smiled anyway, they wouldn't call her on it.

She snorted, eyes sliding closed as her fatigue rose to the forefront. "Good god_, _no -then they'd _really_ make fun of me, and I'd never hear the end of it!"

A yawn, half-stifled, punctuated her sentence and, resting her head back against the wall, Dagmar mumbled an apology. She never thought she'd say it, but the Canadian _missed_ her uptight boss; running around and arguing with diplomats all by herself was beyond exhausting –particularly when the Tellerites were involved. They certainly put her through her paces today, at the very least.

Silence drifted in between them, and if it was an uncomfortable silence, any discomfort on Dagmar's part was dulled by her sheer lack of energy. At length, Dagmar pushed herself to her feet –something which took far more effort than it should have. Suppressing another yawn, the redhead removed the damp face cloth from her neck, mumbling, "If I stay here any longer, I'm going to fall asleep."

Thelen didn't say anything, but he saw her out of the Embassy, plucking the cloth out of her hands and tossing it negligently onto a nearby bench as they went.

The action was so much like something her brother, Lars, might have done that it _hurt_. It _hurt_, thinking about her family only to remember that they were gone, that over two hundred years separated her from them –all because of one stupid man's ambition.

The Canadian didn't trust her voice to hold under the emotional turmoil that rose in answer to that thought, so she nodded to Thelen instead of bidding him good night and stepped out into the muggy night and flagging down what was essentially a glorified taxi. If Dagmar saw the confused twitching of the Andorian's antennae, she pretended not to notice.

When Dagmar arrived at her standardized apartment –empty picture frames, Spartan- she found that sleep evaded her, despite her exhaustion. She found herself sitting on the edge of her bed, fingers forming a steeple while her elbows rested upon her knees, eyes fixed upon nothing in particular. Over and over, her mind replayed memories –some new, most old- and the faces of her parents, her little brother, seemed to grow more and more vivid as the hours slipped by.

It wasn't until the first rays of a false dawn caught her eyes that Dagmar was brought back to reality. Her muscles cramped and ached, gone stiff with cold and immobility, and her face was damp with rapidly cooling tears. She must have spent the entire night like that, lost in memory.

She hadn't even realized she'd been crying.

The Canadian stood, slowly, grimacing at the tugs and pulls of unhappy muscles and the pins-and-needles of sleeping limbs. She felt strange, unwell –like something spread too thin, lacking substance or any semblance of strength- and recognized the feeling for what it was. Intellectually, at least.

'_Completed the grieving process, my ass.' _

Half-walking, half-staggering over to the computer at her desk was the easy part of the solution, but it was a long moment before the redhead could force her fingers to punch in the commands. Even then, almost immediately after she entered the command to send the message, regret took a stab at her. The man had put up with enough of her emotional baggage –why was she inflicting more of it upon him? Hadn't he done enough for her already?

A beep startled the Canadian, drew a gasp, and nervous, fluttering hands rand through her hair and over her face. She knew she looked far from presentable –damn it, why had she _called_?- but it was too late now.

Sitting down, still stiff and cold, Dagmar opened the channel.

"Miss Gunnarsen." A calm voice greeted her. "It is agreeable to see you again."


	3. Guidance

**THREE: Guidance**

"You have had an emotional relapse." Varek concluded. Dagmar had spent the better part of the last hour explaining what had happened. With her counsellor, the Terran woman might have kept it down to five minutes, tops, but the Vulcan required explanations about the emotions she was experiences as well as the triggers.

The process had proved calming, strangely. Dissecting her own emotions and trying to understand where they came from, under the guidance of her professor, was far more effective than anything her counsellor had tried to do –which involved anything from primal therapy to hypnotism.

It was only then that Dagmar realized that her professor was not as immaculately dressed as usual. In fact, he looked like he had just rolled out of bed –not something Dagmar had ever expected the professor to look like under any circumstances. Unless...

Realization dawned and was confirmed when she glanced at her clock –an "ancient" one, as some of her classmates had called it- and did a few calculations.

"Oh, god, I'm so sorry!" Dagmar blurted, horrified. "It's the middle of the night for you!" An upswept eyebrow quirked, and that just made her feel worse. "I'm so sorry –I shouldn't have called."

"Apologies are illogical and unnecessary."

Dagmar couldn't quite stop the faint smile that the phrase provoked. When she had first begun attending classes with the Vulcan and had found herself requiring help understanding some of the course work outside of class, Dagmar had developed a habit of apologizing almost compulsively. Needless to say, that phrase had become almost a form of parental scolding after a while –though Varek would probably deny that all the way to his deathbed, and quite convincingly, too.

"Good morning." A new voice greeted, off-screen. Varek turned and extended his index and middle fingers to the person –something Dagmar recognized as some sort of greeting between Vulcan couples.

"Good evening, T'Lar." Dagmar answered with more than a little chagrin. "I'm sorry –yes, I know that's illogical, but I'm still sorry. I hadn't realized what time it was for you and your husband when I called."

"Miss Gunnarssen is experiencing an emotional relapse." Varek stated, and T'Lar joined her husband on-screen, extending her own two fingers to Varek briefly.

The Vulcan woman was nothing short of gorgeous, even in her bedclothes. Dagmar had only met her briefly on one occasion before this, and had walked away feeling plain and a bit boring in comparison. T'Lar was not only beautiful, but brilliant, and there was something strangely charismatic about the air of serenity the Vulcan had about her.

T'Lar quirked an eyebrow as well, and it was a struggle to contain a giggle at the two matching Vulcans on her computer screen. "Would it not have been more beneficial to contact the counsellor assigned to your case?"

Varek had asked the same thing one hour earlier and provided his wife with Dagmar's answer himself. "Miss Gunnarssen has not bonded to her counsellor as many in Starfleet had hoped she would. Additionally, Miss Gunnarssen does not feel that Dr. Shore's techniques are effective, as this is her third emotional relapse since Dr. Shore declared her therapy complete."

T'Lar processed that information for several moments. Dagmar was both embarrassed and ridiculously grateful that T'Lar thought well enough of her to devote so much thought to her situation. Varek was one thing –she had established a rapport with her professor early on, finding it ironically easier to relate to an alien than to her own species at the time- but T'Lar had no real obligation to help her.

"You are experiencing increased blood flow to the capillaries of your face and neck." Varek observed suddenly. Dagmar blinked, surprised, and felt her face flush even further. "Am I correct in assuming that you are experiencing embarrassment or shame?"

It was hard not to feel embarrassed when someone just came right out and said something like that, Dagmar thought wryly. In fact, she desperately wanted to crawl under her desk at that moment, if only to get away from the keen scrutiny she was under.

It was with more than a little difficulty that Dagmar forced herself to be brutally honest, and even then her answer came out from between clenched teeth. "Yes, I am embarrassed."

Pre-empting the inevitable question of _why_, the Canadian continued, painfully, "I feel like I shouldn't need help with this and I am embarrassed by the fact that I do." –a pause, and then- "I was not raised to be so open with my emotions; Scandinavians are usually very reserved outside of family interactions. Especially with non-Scandinavians." –a grimace and then, even more painfully- "We tend to be very... clannish."

God, that was like pulling teeth without anaesthetic.

Even Varek, who had great difficulty understanding some Human emotions, picked up on the unspoken crux of the problem. Dagmar didn't have a family anymore –not even her family's descendants- and so, did not have an outlet for her emotions or anything resembling a support structure beyond an ineffective counsellor and, irony of ironies, a stoic Vulcan couple.

"You have... friends... within the Andorian side of the Terran Embassy." T'Lar stated, though it sounded suspiciously like a question. Dagmar nodded, if hesitantly, wondering where the Vulcan woman was going with this. "My understanding of the situation is that you lack a clan and are suffering emotional distress because of this. Andorian society is very similar in many respects to your culture, particularly in regards to family. Given your reluctance to bond with your own species, the most logical course of action would to attempt to bond with several receptive Andorians."

Dagmar blinked.

She'd never even considered that.

"In addition, I would recommend meditation as a method of controlling your... grief." Varek supplemented. He seemed uncomfortable, if only very faintly, at the mention of the emotion. Dagmar politely refrained from commenting. "There are several simple meditations that would serve this purpose; I will send you instructions regarding all of them."

Gratitude washed over the Canadian. "Thank you –both of you. I'm sorry I'm such an inconvenience all the time. I know you must have better things to do than deal with my issues whenever I fall to bits."

The cool two-part explanation of the illogical nature of gratitude as well as self-depreciation performed in concert by Varek and his wife was both frightening and fascinating. The pair was so in-tune with one another that they supplemented each other's arguments flawlessly.

"Nevertheless," Dagmar cut in, holding up her hand in a silent call for attention. "Thank you."

Varek raised his eyebrow once again and terminated the connection.

Dagmar smiled, weary and stiff and cold, and turned her seat to watch the sunrise through her living room window. As the sky lightened with a false dawn and then once again with the true dawn, the differences of this new Earth seemed more and more glaringly obvious.

Even the sunrise and sunset were different now, just shadows of they should have been; with the cleaner air of the twenty-third century, the colours weren't as vibrant. It was still pretty enough, she supposed, but it seemed... colder.

The smile, small as it was, slipped from her face as she moved to prepare for another long day in the Embassy.


	4. Reinforcements

**FOUR: Reinforcements**

Shral was doing that _thing_ again. If she hadn't been so bone-tired, she would have been a little more active in avoiding the Andorian aide, but, it was all Dagmar could do to stay upright and relatively awake. She didn't have the energy to do much else, to be frank.

Miss White and the other translator were still sick, leaving the Canadian to once again shoulder their duties as well as her own. As it was, she was struggling to concentrate on translating the latest Vulcan and Tellerite communiqués. Her concentration was weak, probably because she hadn't slept, and the redheaded woman constantly found herself getting distracted and having to retranslate the sentence she'd been working on because of a mistake.

It was after yet another mistake in translating a paragraph about Tellerite wine tariffs that Dagmar tossed the PADD onto the table she was sitting at almost violently and ran her hand over her face. This was ridiculous. She couldn't work like this.

"You seem unwell." Shral commented suddenly. Dagmar jumped; she'd forgotten the Andorian was there.

Pinching the bridge of her nose and sighing, the Terran woman mumbled, "Didn't sleep. Can't concentrate."

Shral's antennae bowed towards each other in amusement, and there was a glint in his startlingly green eyes. Dagmar had never seen eyes that green on a Human. They were an intense emerald green with faint yellow flecks. If he had been Human, Dagmar would have accused him of wearing contacts. "Ah! We had wondered if you have found mates yet! Are they satisfactory?"

Dagmar blinked. Twice. It took her brain an _embarrassingly_ long time to make the connection between the plural "mates" and the Andorian marriage custom of grouping into quads, and then to make the secondary connection that Shral assumed she hadn't slept because she'd been occupied with her hypothetical quad. Her face coloured.

"No! No, no, no!" Dagmar panicked, flustered and embarrassed. She waved her hands around, as if she could make the thought go away if she flailed at it frantically enough. "Wrong conclusion! Definitely the wrong conclusion!"

Shral blinked slowly, antennae wiggling in confusion, and the action was so similar to Varek's that Dagmar nearly laughed. She suspected the Andorian wouldn't much like the comparison, though, and kept her amusement to herself. Even with the alliance between Andoria and Vulcan, there were still a few... issues that needed to be worked out.

"I do not understand." The aide began. "If you were not occupied with your mates, then why are you fatigued?"

Of all the conversations she could possibly be having with any of the Andorians she knew, it just _had_ to be the one Andorian that made her ridiculously uncomfortable and about a subject that she _really_ didn't want to get into. _Fantastic_. Squeezing her eyes shut, Dagmar hoped that the faint pain growing behind her eyes wasn't going to turn into a migraine.

"I'm tired because I'm... not feeling well." Dagmar answered reluctantly. She didn't want to lie –Andorians _hated_ lying, though they were a little more lenient with indirect duplicity- but advertising her recent 'emotional relapse,' as Varek called it, didn't strike her as a wonderful idea, either. Better to tell a half-truth, or a mostly-truth; a lie that's not really a lie but more of a case of careful phrasing. "It'll pass."

"If you are unwell, your mates should not have permitted you leave your domicile." Shral frowned, antennae flicking in irritation. "Humans are susceptible to cooler temperatures –you are liable to worsen your illness by remaining here."

Okay, evidently she needed to clear up a few things. Lightly, Dagmar commented, "If I had any mates, I'm sure they wouldn't have. As it is, I'm single and free to do as I like. Besides, I'm not sick. Humans just tend to feel awful when we don't sleep properly."

Explaining that Humans only had one mate at a time, and the cultural significance of monogamy over polygamy, would take entirely too long.

"Andorians require little sleep." And that was relevant... how? There must have been a reason for the comment; Andorians didn't make small talk –not unless they'd been exposed to Humans for quite some time.

Shral had only been on Earth for eight months.

"Humans need around eight hours per night. The younger ones need closer to ten because of all of the physiological changes and hormone imbalances –teenagers in particular."

The antennae had stopped flicking, instead curving forwards slightly to indicate interest and curiosity. "What is a _teenager_? I am unfamiliar with the term."

Oh, right. Slang. The aide probably hadn't run into too much of that in the Embassy –everyone was much too formal to use it. Except her, apparently. Ms. White had always criticized the Canadian for that, for not being formal enough here or proper enough there –but at least, Dagmar thought viciously, _she_ didn't manhandle her food, or pat the shoulders of Denobulans without permission, and force nasally laughter at all the wrong times in front of Ambassador Thoris. For all that Ms. White had seniority and experience, she lacked the sort of tact and self-awareness to know when to act like a Human and when to act like something else.

Dagmar would say one thing about her boss, though –when it came to translating piles of PADDs flawlessly, (and with all of the footnotes Vulcans required on emotionalisms, to boot) the woman was a _machine_.

"It's slang for an adolescent human." Dagmar explained, drawing herself out of her thoughts. She didn't dislike her boss –not enough to wish the woman ill, anyway- but sometimes Dagmar wished Ms. White would go on vacation on another planet for, say... _forever_. "Usually referring to any child between the ages of thirteen- to nineteen-years-old."

Silence crept in as Shral nodded and returned to his own work, apparently finding the information satisfactory. For herself, Dagmar was contemplating whether or not it was worth trying to finish her translation, or if she should just cave in to her headache and find some sort of painkiller. Maybe she should comm. some of the more junior staff members –the co-op students, maybe- and get them to help her out. They all seemed to like her well enough; maybe a few would take pity on her?

Leaning over the back of her chair to punch in a few commands at the terminal behind her, Dagmar sent a text-based message to several of the staff members in question. Most of them were students working with the Embassy for extra credit and that sort of thing, and if there was one thing that Dagmar knew, it was student behaviour. All she needed to do was mention buying a few drinks for them afterwards and they were as good as hers for the day.

Valiantly, Dagmar returned to her own work and awaited a response. There was a conjugation that was bothering her –it was vital to the tone and nature of the entire sentence and the Canadian _knew_ it was simple, but her brain just couldn't seem to wrap around it.

When a rapid tattoo of beeps from the console interrupted her, Dagmar sighed in relief. Three students were coming to help her –provided she took them out for drinks (on her, of course) after. Well, the Vulcan minion-to-be had requested to be excluded from the mass consumption of alcohol, but stated that he would not be adverse to dinner.

So predictable.

Dagmar grinned, despite her pounding head and fatigue, and declared, "_God_, I love students."

Shral gave her a funny look.


	5. Altercation

**FIVE: Altercation**

"Right, minions!" Dagmar added her PADD to the stack of finished translations with a negligent air, grinning victoriously. The graduate students –a Human man, an adult Denobulan male, and a Vulcan male- rolled their eyes, hummed in amusement, and raised an eyebrow respectively. "Let's go raid a bar –sorry, Kov, a _restaurant_. No alcohol for you."

Standing, Dagmar straightened her clothes and waited for the students next to her to join her.

Kov, a young adult so far as Dagmar could tell, lowered his eyebrow and furrowed his brow ever-so-slightly. "I do not understand. Why would we engage in a military assault against such an establishment?"

From across the table, Shral snorted.

The pale, dark-haired Vulcan, whose skin-tone carried strong green pigments, was relatively new to Earth, from what Dagmar understood, and despite the clash in culture, had thus far adapted very well to Terran society. Better than Dagmar had, at least. Still, the boy's grasp on Human humour seemed loose and a bit faulty. The twenty-first-century woman figured he'd get the hang of it eventually, though. Maybe.

Randal Fox, the sole Human of the trio of students, sighed and impatiently explained, with the air of someone who was more than a little exasperated with the world and all Vulcans, too, "Miss Dagmar is a descendant of the Vikings, a bunch of crazy Scandinavians who ran around raiding and pillaging Europe way back in Human history –she's making a _joke_. Vulcan's _do_ joke, don't they?"

"We do not." Kov answered calmly, but the serene expression he bore was marred by the faintest twitch of his hands, which were clasped loosely on the tabletop.

Dagmar didn't like the boy's tone –and from the faint look of distress on the Denobulan's tanned face, neither did Zepht. Denoublans were very friendly, generally, and they disliked conflict.

Shral observed silently from the other side of the long table, eye focused on his work but antennae flicking in the direction of the students occasionally. Dagmar felt irrationally ashamed of Randal's behaviour, as if she was responsible for them.

...Well, technically, she was. She'd brought them into the Embassy to help her. Their behaviour was a direct reflection upon her.

"I figured _that_ much." Randal all but sneered. "What? A sense of humour's too _illogical_ for you?"

"That's enough!" Dagmar snapped, suddenly, loudly. Randal jumped, Zepht frowned impressively, but Kov alone remained unaffected. "Mr. Fox, if you cannot control yourself and curb your –quite frankly- disgraceful behaviour, I will be speaking to your supervisor."

"But-!" Randal stood from his seat, turning to her with what looked like betrayal etching his expression. Whatever the wiry Human had to say, Dagmar wasn't interested. She'd encountered faint traces of xenophobia amongst some of the older aliens in the Embassy, which stemmed from her supposed primitive mindset, but the worst of it had come from her own species. She was Human, yes, but she was _different_ so, _clearly_, that made her dangerous and maybe a bit stupid, too.

Humans hadn't changed much in the last two hundred years, and Dagmar was _tired_ of it.

"I come from a time where the serious contemplation of non-Human life in the universe was considered crazy-talk, yet I have no problems with Andorians or Vulcans or Denobulans –or any other race that's been thrown at me thus far." Dagmar interrupted sharply, albeit with more calm and composure than she felt. She was not prone to shouting when angry; instead, she communicated her rage by growing frosty, detached, and too-still. People tended to find the change unnerving, and Dagmar used it to her advantage. "What is _your_ excuse?"

"You don't understand!" Randal protested, fair hair in disarray as he shook his head angrily.

"Yes," Dagmar answered frostily. "Yes, I do. I _understand_ that you are afraid of things that are different from what you know. I _understand_ that you are ashamed of that fear, and your shame makes you angry. What I _do not_ understand is how, after two hundred years of war and genocide since my time, we as a species have _failed_ to rectify your backwards way of thinking."

Randal flushed red, fists clenching. Dagmar wondered if he would try to hit her.

Unwittingly, the quartet had attracted a few onlookers –mostly Andorian- many of whom were speculating on the likelihood of violence. Out of the corner of her eye, Dagmar could have sworn she saw Ambassador Thoris among the crowd.

_Shit_.

"You're no different than they are!" A sharp, jabbing gesture indicating Kov, Zepht and the Andorians punctuated the blonde man's sentence.

Dagmar flinched. A slap in the face would have been kinder. "_Get out_."

"Why don't you make me?" The thin blonde snarled. Dagmar took a step forward, fists clenching. It wasn't really anger that drove her forward, though she _was_ angry –rather, it was pain. Isolation, xenophobia, and a sense of how deep the divide was between herself and this boy, this boy who was a member of her own species, gnawed at her. "What, too afraid to fight?"

Dagmar blanched, and emotional pain receded in the face of ire and dismay.

To the side, Shral inhaled sharply, antennae flattened against his skull as he all but leapt to his feet. Two of the security officers looked at each other, antennae flicking in agitation, and shifted forwards. To call someone a coward amongst Andorians was not unlike a killing insult among Vikings –legally, it gave Shral and any other Andorian in the room the right to challenge Randal to Ushaan, to the death, on her behalf. Not because they had any special affection for her, of course, but because she was associated with the Ambassador (however loosely) and the Ambassador could not have ties to a coward; it would dishonour the whole of the Andorian side of the Embassy by proxy.

Worse –if Dagmar let the insult go, she'd essentially be admitting to cowardice. The Andorians would never respect her again; her work would be ignored, her input worthless, and her job almost definitely terminated by the day's end.

Her options were limited, to say the least. She could indicate the desire for someone to challenge Randal –which would almost certainly result in the boys' death- or she could shoot the Starfleet student down before someone did something stupid.

"_No_." Dagmar answered after several long moments. In the background, the Canadian saw Shral give the Andorian equivalent of a frown, antennae writhing in confusion.

"No?" Randal repeated dumbly. Abruptly, Dagmar knew his game. He had heard that the _primitive_ twenty-first century girl was violent, would fight anyone if challenged, would show her true colours as an uncivilized, unsafe creature. He was trying to prove a point; she _did_ not belong, she _could_ not belong, she was not _capable_ of belonging. A few others had tried to do the same, though their tactics had been far more refined.

Taking a breath and reigning in her anger and horror and hurt, Dagmar affirmed, "No. I am not afraid to fight you, Mr. Fox, but I will not do so –not here, in an _Embassy_, on supposedly neutral ground. If you have some issue with me, you will respect the laws of this day and contain yourself until we are at a more appropriate location."

Quietly, at her back, Zepht remarked to Kov, "Ah, most wise. Outside of the Embassy, they are both subject to Terran laws. In here, the law is more... ambiguous, you see; there's no way to know what's in the right and what might result in a galactic incident."

Clever, clever man.

More loudly, Zepht coughed and began, "If I may interject?"

Dagmar nodded, encouraging the Denobulan to continue. Her face was a carefully crafted mask of indifference.

"Perhaps it would be best if Mr. Fox did _not_ accompany us to dinner." Zepht continued with an exaggerated smile that reminded the Canadian of the Grinch. "Clearly, there are some diplomatic issues which need to be worked out between you two, and I think I speak for all of us when I say I'd rather not ruin a perfectly good dinner with all this _unpleasantness_."

"I concur." Kov seconded after a moment. "A conflict of this nature would be most unsuitable in any of the possible establishments chosen for this evening. Additionally, as Miss Gunnarssen is our host for the evening, it would be most unwise to continue such hostile interactions." –A brow quirked upwards- "It is my understanding that Mr. Fox has delivered what ancient Scandinavian peoples refer to as a _killing insult_. Under a set of ancient laws, Miss Gunnarssen has the legal right to maim, mutilate, or terminate you with impunity. That Miss Gunnarssen had restrained herself thus far, given her culture's violent disposition, speaks of remarkable self-discipline."

Dagmar tried not the react to the uncharacteristic praise, or the Vulcan's surprisingly knowledge of Viking customs. Clearly, there was more to the trio of students than she had initially thought.

Randal flushed an angry red, turning on the Vulcan. It seemed to Dagmar that he hadn't expected to lose so much ground quite so quickly, and he was searching for an easy target for his anger. Pointing accusingly, the Terran male shouted, "You said you didn't know anything about her people!"

_Her people –_as if she was any different from him. Dagmar grit her teeth together and fought not to say something that would only escalate the situation.

Kov tilted his head to one side, just fractionally, and corrected. "I did not. I merely questioned the necessity of performing a raid upon a food-dispensing establishment. I have studied Human history in great detail, prior to participating in Starfleet's interspecies exchange program."

Randal stared at the three of them –Dagmar and her two co-op students- before turning on his heel and all but stomping out of the room like a tantric child.

"Kov." The redhead woman turned to the Vulcan graduate student behind her. Her hands were clasped tightly behind her back, white-knuckled. "Erase everything that Mr. Fox translated this evening. I cannot trust the integrity of his work. I will translate those documents again myself."

Kov nodded wordlessly and separated seven of the twenty-four PADDs. A few muted beeps later, and the pale Vulcan placed those same seven PADDs in a separate pile from the finished translations.

The mostly-Andorian crowd murmured amongst themselves but gradually dissipated, growing bored now that one of the potential combatants had disappeared. Dagmar relaxed tensed muscles and exhaled slowly, adrenaline fading from her system.

"Your people were very much like Andorians, once."

Ambassador Thoris was the speaker –the redheaded Terran knew that reedy, thin voice anywhere. Still, she turned to face the Andorian, fighting to keep her chagrin off of her face; she'd all but forgotten that he had been amongst the crowd of observers.

The Ambassador's antennae were ramrod straight, and Dagmar felt her stomach sink. Dagmar had a vivid image of her job flitting out the window like an ungainly and possibly slightly demented butterfly.

Shral was nowhere to be seen.

Varek was going to dissect her behaviour and lecture her for _hours_ when he found out she'd been fired –not that she'd been fired yet, but it was looking like a strong possibility.

Hesitantly, she answered the comment, examining the floor with feigned interest. Eye-contact with her employer was too awkward, just then. "In a way, sir."

"And where are they now? Your people?"

Dagmar suppressed another flinch and dragged her eyes away from the floor to look at the shorter Andorian male. "Dead, sir. I'm the last."

The last. Yes, she supposed she was. She was the last of her family. There might have been descendants -from her brother, from her cousins- but the bloodline would have been too diluted by the twenty-third century. If any of her family's descendants had survived the wars, the Eugenics movements, the famines and hundreds of natural disasters... there wouldn't be enough of her blood in them. They wouldn't be _hers_.

Thoris continued his prompting, his antennae lashing minutely before curving forwards, "And your _keth_?"

Dagmar blinked, wondering what part of her response the male hadn't understood. Slowly, deliberately, she repeated herself. "I'm the last."

There was something truly horrible about those words –like nails holding a coffin shut while you were in it, still alive, still breathing. It was like suffocating and breathing too fast at the same time, dizzying and frightening.

Thoris left without another word; Andorians did not waste time with unnecessary small talk.

* * *

><p>"That was <em>most<em> unnecessary." Kov, predictably, stated some time later, fingers forming a steeple. The inflection had Dagmar wagering that he was a very unhappy Vulcan, emotional discipline or not. If any of the restaurant's patrons noticed, no one stared or commented.

The Terran woman had chosen a restaurant that catered to her meat-heavy diet _and_ the Vulcan's meat-free requirements. It was a quiet sort of place, where you could eat and drink in peace without running the risk of getting hit on by packs of Starfleet's would-be finest. The music was quiet, subtle –more atmospheric than energizing- and the overall ambience was welcoming, but not intimate.

Shaking her head, feeling her braid sway with the motion, the redhead sighed. "I apologize for disturbing you, both of you. I shouldn't have lost my temper."

"Your interference was unnecessary." Kov repeated. Yep. Definitely an unhappy Vulcan. "And I do not believe it was wise behave in such a manner in front of the Andorian Ambassador. It would be most undesirable for you were to suffer punitive actions as a result of your conduct."

Undesirable, indeed.

Silence and then, so faintly that Dagmar thought she was seeing things, a tiny quirk at the corner of Kov's downturned mouth. "However, experience has taught me that Humans are rarely logical or wise. Perhaps the Ambassador will take this into account and be lenient."

"Perhaps." Zepht agreed, and there was that creepy Grinch-smile that only a Denobulan could pull off.

Dagmar blinked, and, smiling faintly, completely revised her opinions of the young Vulcan and the Denobulan linguist.

"I hope so." The redhead murmured before straightening a little and asking, "So, have you two figured out what you'd like to order?"

Zepht was entirely too excited about the prospect of Terran food. "Oh! I haven't had the chance to try Human cuisine before –I wonder, might you recommend something? I wouldn't know where to begin, myself! So many choices! For example, what are these Belgian waffles I keep hearing about? And what is pizza? It seems to be very popular among Human students. Also, a young woman I met on a transport ship some months ago strongly recommended edible _clothing_ –what do you know about this phenomenon?"

Dagmar nearly choked on her ice water at that, only to laugh until it hurt when the full implications of the question hit her. Zepht blinked, confused, while Kov looked on with careful indifference.

Once she'd recovered enough to speak, all Dagmar could bring herself to say was, "Zepht, sometimes Humans have very strange sexual habits –and that's all I'm going to say about it!"

Zepht, naturally, was fascinated.

In the back of her mind, the twenty-first-century woman tried not to panic over losing her job –which she almost certainly would. Thoris didn't strike her as the _lenient_ type, whatever the Vulcan and the Denobulan might say.

At the very least, she could make sure that Randal Fox never set foot in the Embassy again. That was something –even if she had to redo all of those translations and probably lose another night's sleep over it.

In the meantime, though, she planned to enjoy her dinner.


	6. Momentum

**SIX: Momentum**

The office was colder than usual the next evening –but, then, it always was. Luckily, she'd remembered to bring a sweater this time.

"You have the translations ready?" Ambassador Thoris inquired coolly in that thin, reedy voice of his. Dagmar nodded, proffering the handful of PADDs wordlessly. The Ambassador has summoned her to his office almost the moment she'd set foot in the Embassy, and much of the visit had been spent in uncomfortable, speculating silence. She was exhausted –her prediction of not sleeping a wink having come true- and she was anxious under the layer of resignation she felt; a quiet sort of sad feeling that was not really sad at all but instead just a kind of very tired.

The Ambassador gave the PADD on the top of the pile a cursory glance before setting the stack down. Standing before the shorter Andorian male, who despite sitting behind a large desk and –psychologically speaking- in an inferior position in terms of body language, Dagmar felt like she was the small one.

"You understand that you are responsible for the disruption yesterday evening?"

"Yes, sir."

"And do you understand the ramifications of that disruption –not least of which is the questionable integrity of the Human male's translations?"

"Yes, sir. I have retranslated the documents handled by the Mr. Fox, and most of the ones he was consulted on by the other students."

"I see. Were there flaws?"

"Yes, sir."

"How serious?"

"Relatively minor, sir, but they were pervasive and centered largely on the Vulcan translations." A grimace as she struggled to fight against the impulse to flee.

"Of what nature were they?" The thin, reedy voice of the Ambassador drawled.

"Condescension and insufficient detail."

"Have you corrected all of them?"

A nod, not-quite-curt, her eyes fixed on the empty space in front of her. "Yes, sir."

"So, if I were to present these to the Vulcan Ambassador, he would find no flaws?"

She felt like a child being reprimanded for breaking a vase and trying to hide the evidence. "No, sir."

"Would you believe," Thoris changed the subject abruptly, antennae directed at her. "That I have never read your file?"

Dagmar blinked in surprise. That couldn't be right -Thoris had been the one to approve her employment! "...No, sir. I would not."

The Andorian stood, clasping his hands behind his back as he turned to examine the wall of weapons behind him. "Rather, I read your professional profile –your academic standing, noted skills and experience and such- but your psychological profile was never presented to me prior to yesterday evening."

What? That wasn't right... Dagmar dropped her eyes to the floor, feeling the beginnings of dread.

"It took me the better part of last evening to convince your government to debrief me," The Andorian continued, still facing away from her. Off to the side, the omnipresent Shral looked on, antennae rigid with careful self-control. "And yet, _despite_ our alliance, I was not given all of the details." –the Ambassador's antennae flicked backwards in irritation before curving once more towards the weapons- "Suffice it to say, Miss Gunnarssen, that if I had been aware of your state of... displacement... in addition to your noted psychological troubles, I likely would not have agreed to take you on."

Dread grew, thin and slippery tendrils reaching out and coiling about her innards, heavy and cold in her belly, but with it came confusion.

"I don't understand, sir." Dagmar tentatively began, brow furrowed. "You should have been given my _entire_ profile. I never intended to hide or withhold anything from you or the rest of this Embassy and I don't understand why this was done."

The Andorian Ambassador seemed to consider this for a long moment, turning slowly to pace to the front corner of his desk. His eyes and antennae were fixed on her the entire time, watchful of a telling tick. Dagmar forced herself to not react, understanding the cultural disdain of lying that was pervasive amongst Andorians –and somewhat at odds with their leniency towards the more indirect duplicity they sometimes engaged in. Dagmar figured they had some sort of unspoken general rule about such things: outright lying was dishonourable, but fudging a few details could slip by now and then.

"Fortunately for us, _I_ do." Thoris revealed, stepping away from his desk, hands clasped behind his back, and beginning to circle her. Dagmar held still, feeling her shoulders tense and her back straighten under the scrutiny. "Your situation is an embarrassment to your government –the circumstances that brought you here should never have occurred. As such, when it was discovered that you might find employment amongst my staff, it was decided that a few of the more... scandalous details could be left out. Rest assured, this was not done as any favour to you –the officials within your government are particularly mercenary in these matters."

There was nothing Dagmar could say to that, really. She'd been told over and over and over again that this government wasn't like the ones she'd grown up with –fraught with corruption and impotent- but she'd never believed it. Apparently, her scepticism was warranted.

Something a few shades lighter than shame unfurled in the back of her mind. "I'm sorry, sir –I didn't know."

"Well, that makes two of us!" The Andorian agreed, irritation colouring his voice and antennae flicking as he came full circle and faced her directly. Dagmar raised her eyes from the floor to look at the Ambassador, feeling miserable and unwelcome.

Silence crept in –not the freeing silence of a dismissal or the tense silence of conflict, but somewhere between the two. It left Dagmar wondering if she should be doing something –or _not_ doing something.

Shifting her weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, the Canadian frowned and carefully offered, "I understand if you wish to dismiss me, sir. My records should not have been withheld from you; you have every right to take punitive action against me."

Shral, off to the side, lost some of his stoicism as he stepped forward to activate a console. His antennae gave away his state of mind, not-quite drooping and flicking occasionally with agitation. The scene on the console startled the Human female; it was a security recording of the lobby area where Dagmar and her three students had spent hours translating. This particular recording showed the events of the previous day, a few moments before Mr. Fox began to lay into Kov. Wordlessly the three occupants of the Ambassador's office watched the console as the events unfolded.

The recording offered a slightly new perspective on the events that Dagmar remembered. Shral had gone missing towards the end of the altercation; Dagmar now saw that he had been dismissed by Thoris from the sidelines. Zepht, also, had been distressed throughout the scene –something the Canadian hadn't paid much attention to. She also saw Thelen, her security guard buddy, amongst the crowd of onlookers, antennae almost flattened against his skull in outright rage.

Worse, though, was the presence of a media personality that Dagmar knew very well –the woman had interviewed her twice after her arrival into the twenty-third century, and had been mostly sympathetic. _Mostly_. She hadn't seen anything in the news reports that morning, though, so either the Ambassador had pulled strings or the woman was waiting for an opportunity.

When the recording ended, Dagmar blinked, surprised to find that she'd begun to sink into memory, and returned to the present.

"Despite the flaws indicated in your psychological profile, your behaviour was appropriate." Shral began after receiving a nod from the Ambassador. Dagmar wondered at their relationship –evidently, Thoris trusted Shral and they occasionally worked in concert, but to what degree? What else was Shral trusted with? Not that she could do anything with such information, of course, but the redheaded Canadian _was_ curious. "You withstood an attack on your honour and averted an altercation without suffering any further loss of face. An Andorian would not have cared to remember that the Embassy comes under the jurisdiction of ambiguous laws at best; _ushaan_ would have been declared and the incident would have developed into an intergalactic scandal."

"The Vulcans would have pitched a fit." Dagmar agreed after a moment, desperately trying not to stare at his antennae –which, as usual, were doing that pointing thing _again_. What did that _mean?_ It was freaking her out!

"And the Tellerites would have protested vehemently." Shral affirmed. Dagmar idly wondered if he was even aware that he was doing it, the bastard. "Which is why your inaction was, in fact, the _ideal_ course of action."

Wait, what? She was... being _praised_? Dagmar allowed confusion to show in her expression, bewildered as she was, and wondered why they hadn't thrown her out yet.

"In short, Miss Gunnarssen," Thoris summarized. "I should dismiss you. In fact, it has been suggested to me on several occasions this morning alone. The Vulcan Ambassador is especially averse to keeping you here. On that note, we are also doing a security overhaul on our communications systems and figuring out how the Vulcans heard about your records; submit your clearance details to the Chief of Security on your way out."

This was a compliment sandwich, wasn't it? Berate her, throw in some praise in the middle to soften the blow, and then fire her. Bloody hell.

"However," Thoris added, and Dagmar was even more bewildered to find his antennae beginning to curve towards one another. "I do not like this Vulcan Ambassador; the previous one, I understand, was far more reasonable."

That's right, Dagmar remembered. Ambassador Soval had retired –rather, had been called back to Vulcan to serve his government more directly. A pity –apparently, he'd come dangerously close to developing a sense of humour. The new Ambassador was young and uptight, and Dagmar was glad to have little contact with the Vulcan dignitary.

But what did that mean? Thoris was keeping her just to annoy the new Vulcan Ambassador? What purpose did that serve?

"So... you're _not_ dismissing me?" The Canadian asked slowly, trying to wrap her mind around this newest turn of events.

"She _is_ awfully slow this morning." Thoris commented to Shral, whose antennae bowed together in open amusement. Turning to the sole pink-skin in the room, the Ambassador spoke slowly and used very small words. "No, little pink-skin, you get to stay_ a little while longer_. For the next week, you're on leave while we look into Mr. Fox and sort out the Vulcans. When you return, you'll been transferred to my personal staff.

Dagmar blinked. A wry voice in the back of her mind speculated that her leave was likely unpaid, but it was overridden by the internal echo of the Ambassador's last sentence.

"Your personal staff, sir?" She repeated dumbly. What the devil had she done _right_?

"You have an abnormally level head in a conflict, for a Human –that's worth keeping around, if nothing else." Almost as an aside to himself, the Ambassador added, "Besides, it's not often that I get to annoy the Vulcans."

Stunned, all Dagmar could really manage in response was a faint, "_Oh_."

Oh, wow.

Was this happening? Maybe she was dreaming. Dagmar surreptitiously pinched herself and winced. Nope, definitely awake.

Wow.

There had to be a catch somewhere.

"Do something about her, Shral –she's gone into a state, from the looks of it." Thoris ordered after a moment. Dagmar registered the words, the exasperated tone, and Shral's hand at her elbow, but only very faintly, still stuck in her own internal moment of stunned surprise.

Dagmar had walked into the Ambassador's office expecting to be shouted at and fired. Now she was walking out with a promotion. And that's what it was, really –a promotion, albeit a backwards one.

By the time Dagmar came back to her senses, Shral had corralled her to his own smaller office, sat her down in the chair in front of his PADD-cluttered desk, and had pushed a cool shot glass of something blue and faintly iridescent into her hand. Andorian ale, the Canadian recognized the drink as; potent, with a strong, funny sort of flavour that she could never quite put a name on.

"Did that really just happen?" She asked after a long moment of staring at the ale in her hand. The Andorian aide leaned against his desk, half-sitting, half-standing, with a shot glass of his own and an open bottle beside him.

Shral gave her a thin sort of smile, sharp teeth peeking through momentarily, as his antennae bowed towards each other once again. Andorians didn't grin like Humans did –not that they could. Their facial muscles weren't quite developed enough for it, and it never quite looked right even when they tried. "I'm afraid so."

Dagmar raised her shot glass in a wordless toast –to who or what, she wasn't sure- and downed the ale in one go. It burned the entire way down, but strangely –not at all like Terran alcohol did. It burned _coldly_, if that made any sense, but made her feel warm and toasty a few moments later. The best comparison that she could think of was that it was like to much mint –only without the flavour.

"Thanks." She murmured, suddenly very tired. She'd psyched herself up with worries and anxieties earlier, moments after she'd been summoned to see Ambassador Thoris. Now that there was suddenly no reason to worry, the Human woman felt drained. With a stare that was more plaintive than anything else, Dagmar confessed, "This had been a very odd week."

Shral made a noise of interest, antennae curving forward.

"Long story." The Canadian waved the Andorian's curiosity away, slouching in the high-backed chair and running a hand through her hair.

Dagmar reviewed recent events in her mind: her awkward first encounter with Ambassador Thoris when Savannah White got sick, Thelen accidentally triggering an 'emotional relapse' –which lead to her calling her former Vulcan professor at some ungodly time in the morning for counselling- then getting into a tiff with that Fox kid, dinner with a tetchy Vulcan and an entirely too curious Denobulan, and –magically- getting promoted by aforementioned Ambassador when he should have been firing her.

All within the span of five days. Her brow furrowed in disbelief. In years after her untimely arrival in the twenty-third century, her life had been fairly routine –dull even- and now _this_?

There _had_ to be a catch somewhere. There just had to be. Lucky things didn't just _happen_ to her, after all.

Not recently, anyway.

The Andorian aide wordlessly poured her another shot of ale and then a second for himself. And then a third. And then a fourth.

* * *

><p>Somewhere between that fourth shot of Andorian ale and the seventh, Dagmar found herself in a booth towards the back of a jazz club. The light was low –not enough to strain her eyes, but enough to set the relaxed sort of mood common to jazz and blues joints from her time- and the music was of the smooth vocal jazz genre with a bit of swing thrown in there for good measure, near as the Terran could tell. The band playing on an elevated stage over in the far end of the club was pretty good –though the singer's voice was a shade too gravelly for her tastes.<p>

It was a fairly spacious club, with food being served from a circular table at each booth, around which were not chairs but wide, flat cushions. The booths were sectioned off from one another with a circular half-wall (solid with the exception of the entryway); the wall was low enough to see over when seated and close enough to the cushions to lean comfortably against. The lacquered wooden table itself was a surprisingly intricate affair, low-bearing and being formed of an inner layer and an outer layer of wide rings which rotated clockwise and counter-clockwise. There appeared to be place-holders of some sort on the rings, to ensure that the various dishes and trays didn't slip or slide off of the table, and the central section of the table, which did not rotate, held a decorative fondue pot of boiling oil with an array of long-necked two-pronged forks around it.

The dishes themselves held various raw meats and vegetables –some of which Dagmar recognized as Terran in origin while others were foreign to her- as well as fruits and flatbreads and various smaller bowls of dipping sauces. There also appeared to be a platter of honey-drizzled _flowers_, of all things.

Judging by the number of Andorians into the circular booth with her, she guessed that she and Shral must have picked up a few friends on the way out of the Embassy. Predictably, the number of Andorians crammed into the booth combined with the lax attitude towards personal space meant that Dagmar found her crossed legs being used as an armrest (and her shoulder by association as a headrest) by Thelen –Dagmar had fuzzy recollections of snagging the security officer's elbow on the way out- and herself pressed hip to shoulder with Shral. Thelen in turn was partially entangled with an Andorian female –the one from the elevator a few days ago, Dagmar recognized- while Shral had one arm looped around the Canadian's shoulder and his thigh serving as a pillow for a younger Andorian male from the security branch. The other eight Andorians were draped over and around each other in whatever way their deemed most comfortable, and all of them, Dagmar included, were varying degrees of tipsy –not drunk, mind, but ranging from Not Completely Sober to Very Nearly Plastered.

"Try this, Dagmar," Thelen suggested, contorting his torso to offer her one of the honey-drizzled flowers. It was one of the few times the Andorian had ever referred to her by her first name, and Dagmar was exactly sober enough to notice and exactly tipsy enough not to overanalyze it.

The Canadian deduced that the security officer was closer to the Very Nearly Plastered side of things than she was, judging by the way his antennae were swivelling and rotating in different directions. His speech was remarkably unhindered, but that made sense; Andorians, when drunk, found that their vision was affected first, rather than speech as was seen in Humans. They visual data from their eyes and their antennae didn't quite click after a few drinks; more than that and the poor bastards ended up seeing two different versions of the world and couldn't figure out where, exactly, anything was because their spatial orientation was shot to hell, too.

"Humans find _vithi_ bitter." Shral frowned, his set of antennae more stable than anyone else's at the moment. Dagmar placed the aide at the Not Completely Sober range of things.

"She _likes_ bitter!" Thelen dismissed, leaning heavily on the redhead in question and offering the Andorian version of a smile; soft, almost liquid eyes, and the very faintest of creasing at the corners. If Dagmar hadn't known about that non-smile, she might have accused the Andorian of using calf-eyes on her.

Good thing, too –Thelen probably would have been insulted.

Curious, Dagmar reached over and plucked the flower out of Thelen's hand and popped it into her mouth. The taste was... interesting. The petals were thick, fleshy like spinach, but smoother in texture and they seemed to only have a faint, watery flavour. It wasn't until she bit into the heart of the flower that the supposed bitterness presented itself. It was a weird sort of bitterness –like when someone roasts their coffee too darkly; you can tell there are high notes somewhere in there, but it's just smothered by the bitter flavour. The honey managed to salvage some of those highlights, and the overall flavour was actually quite enjoyable.

The Terran woman hummed, offering a pleased, closed-mouth smile as she continued chewing. The approval on her part was met with entirely too enthusiastic (and _hard_) thumps on the shoulder from all of the Andorians within arm's reach of her and claims that they would make an Andorian of her yet.

Something about that made her feel warm and kind of fuzzy, and Dagmar wasn't entirely sure it was the alcohol.

"Just don't make me eat that bloody beetle dish again, and we're good!" She agreed, giving an exaggerated shudder at the memory of that particular 'delicacy.' It was probably the worst thing she'd ever tasted.

Shral's antennae bowed together, wobbling unsteadily enough to warrant the antennae-expression taking several moments to form. If he were Human, he would have fallen into drunken giggling. As it was, Dagmar wasn't entirely sure Andorians _could_ giggle. She'd certainly never seen any evidence of it. In fact, she'd never even heard any of her Andorian compatriots laugh. Strange, given that they should have the capability –their physiology in that respect was similar enough to a Human's.

Maybe something embarrassing happened when they giggled. Dagmar's mind latched onto that idea like a small child to the world's biggest lollipop. Maybe it threw their balance off and they all fell over when it happened. That could be very embarrassing, indeed! Imagine, trying to have a serious conversation at a treaty negotiation, and poor Ambassador Thoris toppling over whenever Ambassador Gral said something entertaining enough to warrant a giggle! It would ruin Andoria's entire image! No longer would they be the stark and stoic warriors of an ice planet, but wobbly gigglers! The shame! The _horror_!

...The sober part of Dagmar's mind told her to stop drinking, for god's sake, before she said any of that out loud.


	7. Ruse

**SEVEN: Ruse**

The Canadian, having surreptitiously switched to fruit juice long before Thelen and Shral decided to get well and truly plastered, was the most sober of the trio she was currently carting around downtown San Francisco –which, naturally, left her to shepherd the pair home. So it was with the umpteenth long-suffering sigh of the evening and an arm around the pair of willowy aliens that the Canadian steered, stabilized, and supported the aide and security officer through the alleyways and around the street corners. And all the while, they both complained about the heat –the _humidity !_ Spirits, how did Humans _survive_?- and the architecture –Andorian construction is vastly superior!- and the smell –we're too close to that damned sea of yours!

Dagmar, with the long-suffering internal monologue that had started sometime after the Andorian drinking songs had started and a little bit before Shral's neighbour –a tall, gorgeous Andorian woman- started hitting on her, endured.

It wasn't that she was homophobic, as a side note, –even in her time, she'd regarded that mindset as inexcusably ignorant- but having her hair compared to a red, bat-like creature from Andoria was not high on her list of flattering things ever said about her. Also, there was a slight cultural faux pas thrown in there when the female had struggled to find a suitable comparison for the lone Terran's skin; Andorian ghost-stories centered around figures pale and devoid of any of the blue-pigments so characteristic of their species (which, incidentally, was a symptom of serious illness in living Andorians.) As Dagmar was of Northern European and Celtic descent, she was rather fair-skinned (bordering on pasty, to be honest) and...Well, needless to say, that hadn't gone quite as well as the Andorian woman had probably planned.

But Dagmar endured –largely because the female wasn't trying to be insulting (and it _was_ rather funny, actually; "You are attractive for a Human! Your hair is like a Redbat –very fetching, despite your ghastly skin!") and because she genuinely liked the Andorians she was swamped with in that little booth. She was fairly comfortable with the lot of them -even Shral, whose wobbly antennae were still making a valiant effort to do that weird pointing thing now and then. As usual, the redhead ignored the antennae-gesture, and found that the aide was actually fairly pleasant company, if a bit formal.

"Come back with us to Andoria!" Thelen suggested suddenly, antennae wobbling about as they staggered towards the Andorian compound. He was probably trying to look at her, but with his drunken dual vision problems and balance issues, the Andorian ended up gazing beseechingly at a nearby lamppost instead. Dagmar fought not to laugh.

"Seconded!" Shral agreed, regarding the bush on the opposite side of the street intently.

The suggestion surprised her. Andoria? She'd never even been off-planet. Frowning, the blue-eyed Terran considered the prospect of leaving Earth for the first time. The idea was not as intimidating as she thought it should have been. If anything, there was a sort of relief that came with it –to be away from the modern Terrans who knew what she was and didn't care for who she was. But, at the same time, what if she made a mistake over there? What if she embarrassed her Andorian friends, or offended someone important? She understood the language perfectly, yes, and the culture in theory, but what about in practice?

"Did you hear me?" Thelen asked, though not rudely, fixing the lonely lamppost with a concerned look. "Do Humans suffer hearing problems when drunk? I can't remember."

"No," Dagmar answered with an amused sort of fondness colouring her tone. "We tend to lose our balance a bit and speech is affected –usually with slurring- as well as reaction-time and reflexes. Also, inhibitions are lowered, but I think that's universal. Some people get very sleepy, too."

Shral narrowed verdant eyes at the bush and said accusingly, "_Your_ speech is fine -_and_ your balance!"

"Maybe I'm not drunk, then!" The Canadian retorted cheerfully as she tried to get the three of them moving again; they were heavy, and she didn't fancy standing on a street corner with the pair of them all night. "Someone has to look after you two!"

"So come back to Andoria with us!" Thelen repeated enthusiastically, with a soft-eyed Andorian smile and bowed, if unstable, antennae. He leaned a bit too heavily against her, and the Canadian had to fight not to stagger and send them veering sideways. Fortunately, Shral was taller and heavier than the security guard and happened to be leaning in the opposite direction. The overall result was that Dagmar felt squished and the three of them were moving in a mostly straight line.

"Maybe I will." Dagmar answered, surprising herself. Grinning, she steered the pair onto the final stretch to the Andorian compound. "Spirits know what sort of trouble you'll get into if I leave you alone for more than ten minutes at a time!"

Wow. Apparently, she was subconsciously picking up their slang.

Shral gave the Andorian equivalent of a frown at another lamppost. "No need to be insulting!"

"We'd last a week at least!" Thelen agreed, coming dangerously close to laughing. Dagmar watched the security officer curiously, wondering if her earlier –slightly drunken- hypothesis of wobbly Andorians would be true.

Sadly, it was not to be. If anything, the man seemed to be sobering up a little –pun absolutely intended.

Waving to the guards on duty that night as they passed through the compound entrance –some she recognized from the Embassy and others she didn't- the twenty-first-century woman found that suddenly, the Andorians weren't leaning on her nearly as much as they were before. In fact, they were standing and moving pretty much under their own power, with only the slight wobbly now and then being any indication (antennae aside) of their plastered state. They still kept in contact with her, Thelen with his arm around her shoulders and Shral with his arm around her waist, but the ruse was apparently dispensed with and Dagmar belatedly realized she'd been duped.

Bloody cuddly aliens.

Even so, she found herself reluctant to remove her arms from their waists –mostly because their balance, at least, was genuinely faulty. She'd feel terrible if she let go and one of them went careening into a door or something –or worse, if an antennae was bruised in the process.


	8. Damsel In Distress

**EIGHT: Damsel In Distress**

Wherever she was, it was bloody cold.

Dagmar had never been the sort to wake up disoriented. When she awoke, with one or two rare exceptions, she always knew exactly where she was and how she had gotten there.

This time, however, her sluggish mind floundered, because there was an extra set of limbs or two where there should be none but her own. Cracking open an eyelid hesitantly, she sighed in relief. It was just Shral and Thelen... and possibly every other Andorian on the planet.

In patches and fragments, she remembered dropping the pair off in the communal sleeping area –typical of any Andorian outpost or station- only to realize it was four in the morning. Low crime levels or not, she wasn't wandering around San Francisco in the middle of the night by herself. She'd been about to ask to stay –possibly on a couch somewhere- when Shral had pre-empted her request with an offer of his own.

Mystery solved, she supposed. But that left another matter.

Shral had thrown an arm over her sometime in the night, and her knee had managed to settle over his hip. His free arm was slung around the front of another Andorian, who, via a cushion, was using his exposed side as a pillow. Behind her, she felt Thelen lying close by, warm breath ghosting slow and even over the back of her neck. The top of his thigh was pressed against the back of hers and, amusingly, entangled with Shral's. Thelen's hand, not as warm as a Human's but warm enough, rested on her hip.

Problem is, her hip was not supposed to be bare.

Solving the mystery of her location did not at all explain where some of her clothing had gone. She'd been wearing jeans, a strappy shirt, a leather jacket, and a pair of heels before. Currently, she was down to her shirt and underwear; fortunately, not one of the more interesting pairs in her wardrobe. That could have been embarrassing –not that she wasn't a little embarrassed already, but it could be worse. Still, that explained why she was so cold.

Not that she was particularly concerned –Andorians had a strict honour code. While they encouraged their equivalent of teenagers to experiment (and, indeed, some of the adults continued to do so until married) they regarded the idea of doing such things without all partners' consent as repulsive and low. Still, she was rather fond of those jeans, not to mention her shoes and jacket. Tentatively raising her head from a brightly coloured cushion and trying not to jostle any of her surprise bedfellows, Dagmar looked around. The room was dark still, but she spied her belongings neatly folded (can't have been her doing; she rarely folded anything) on a nearby chair, the shoes tucked underneath.

Satisfied, and still sleepy, Dagmar resettled herself with a faint shiver. It wasn't intolerably cold in the large, dark room, but it was enough to make her uncomfortable.

...And nearly jumped out of her skin when a hand –Thelen's- pat her hip lightly.

"You didn't sleep long." He murmured, voice soft and sibilant even in a whisper. "What's wrong?"

"Cold." Dagmar mumbled.

Andorians ran about ten degrees cooler than Humans did, having an average core temperature of twenty-nine degrees Celsius. Because of their unique semi-osmotic circulatory system, however, they weren't much affected by temperature shifts; the cold affected them to a much lesser degree than Human unless it was beyond ridiculously cold, and the heat (despite their complaints) wasn't as bad for them as Humans, either. In fact, they could survive about a week on a planet with an ambient temperature of the boiling point of water, if they absolutely had to.

Of course, they'd spend a good four months or so in recovery afterwards, but they could do it.

In short, she was freezing and her blue bedfellows were probably quite comfortable.

Thelen shifted closer, until his front was flush against her back. It didn't ease her shivering entirely, but the extra heat certainly helped. Ten degrees below her or not, he was certainly warmer than the ambient temperature, which felt like it was only just above zero-degrees. Before she could protest, Thelen reached over and swiped at Shral's arm –startling the Andorian awake.

"I told you she'd be cold." Thelen groused in explanation, voice little more than a quiet hiss. "Humans are _different_."

That was apparently all the explanation that the aide needed, because suddenly the Canadian was in a very strange cuddle sandwich. Good thing she wasn't claustrophobic... or prudish, for that matter, because she suddenly realized that the Andorians –not just the two beside her, but all of them- were completely unclothed. The light level in the room was very dim –bordering on nearly black- but her eyes had adjusted to the dark and the evidence presented itself quite clearly.

Embarrassment warred with the thought that at least Andorian genitalia were retractable or otherwise internal. Thank god for that obligatory basic xenobiology class –otherwise, she'd be halfway out the compound by now.

It also helped that she was fairly certain that Humans and Andorians weren't compatible (at least, so far as she knew; that class had been _very_ basic) and, therefore, there was nothing to really worry about.

She hoped.

***  
>"Ah! Good morning, Miss Gunnarssen!" An entirely too cheerful –and familiar- reedy voice greeted loudly. "How <em>nice<em> of you to join us! Fascinating, how when I tell you to _go away_, you move right in!"

Dagmar opened her eyes to a pair of bowed antennae, a mouthful of sharp teeth pulled into a vaguely strained smile, and the entirely too gleeful leer of her boss.

"This isn't happening." Dagmar's brain stalled. She was in the middle of a cuddle sandwich with two of her coworkers, in the Andorian compound (where she probably wasn't supposed to be), in less than appropriate clothing –at least, by Human standards- and the first thing she woke up to was her _boss_. Mortification didn't even come _close_ to the mental paralysis she was stuck in.

Behind her, Thelen snorted. In front of her, Shral nodded politely to the Ambassador but otherwise did nothing. The pair pulled away from her only fractionally –enough to turn and greet Thoris with the appropriate amount of respect. Or, at least, as much as possibly, given that Thelen was partially buried under two sleeping Andorian females and wrapped around Dagmar while Shral played pillow to no less than four younger Andorians (all four of whom were arranged sort of like a jigsaw, to Dagmar's amusement) and –once again- Dagmar.

"I'm afraid it _is_, Miss Gunnarssen!" Was it her, or was Thoris having entirely too much fun at her expense? "But as much as I would love to continue this conversation, there's a Vulcan asking for you over the comm. system."

She only knew two Vulcans well enough that they would consider calling her –especially in the morning, if the number of rousing Andorians was any indication of the time; Varek or Kov. Curiously, neither had any reason to call her that she could think of, though.

"Old or young?" Dagmar asked with a puzzled frown, disentangling herself about to prop her upper body up with an elbow. From across the room, the Andorian woman from the previous evening did a double-take upon seeing her and wiggled her antennae at the Canadian in confusion. The lights were still dim, but light enough so Dagmar to be able to see clearly across the room; she hadn't noticed the intricate tapestries and the multitude of colour cushions and silk drapes before. Maybe if she was allowed to come back, she'd get a chance to examine the tapestries more closely.

Big if, though. She probably wasn't supposed to have even set foot in the compound. God only knows why the security guards let her pass –they probably hadn't thought she'd stay.

"Young, green and tetchy," The Andorian male answered nonchalantly, looking strangely at ease in full Ambassadorial regalia –sleek, dark grey and black robes of Andorian silk over a more functional suit not unlike that of the Imperial Guard uniform. Dagmar would have thought that the outfit would have been cumbersome and uncomfortable. "Go answer the comm. before he gets it into his pointy-eared head to walk over from the Vulcan compound and make a nuisance of himself."

Oh. Kov, then.

What the devil was _Kov_ calling her for?

Disentangling herself completely from Shral and Thelen turned out to be extremely complicated as Shral was largely unable to move without waking the four younger Andorians, and Thelen was still half-asleep. Still, Dagmar managed it and, almost belatedly remembering to throw on her shirt and pants lest she traumatize Kov for life, the Canadian wandered over to a small en-suite office and activated the console. In the moments it took for the comm. to connect, she tried to straighten out her mussed hair a bit and hoped her makeup from the previous night wasn't smudged all over her face.

"Good morning, Kov." She greeted, hoping she wasn't too dishevelled-looking. "How are you?"

"I am... functioning within normal parameters." Kov answered slowly, fingers forming a steeply just barely visible at the bottom of the screen. There was a sort of tenseness around his eyes that she didn't like; Dagmar wondered if the young man was struggling with his emotions. Apparently, young Vulcans often had issues with discipline in that respect. "It is most agreeable to learn that your actions have not led to your dismissal from the Embassy."

Lips quirking slightly upwards, Dagmar inclined her head and thanked the Vulcan. "Thank you, Kov. Apparently, I keep calm in tense situations, and the Ambassador thinks that may be useful in the future."

"A sound observation." Kov agreed.

Silence crept in, with Kov not saying anything and Dagmar unsure if it would be considered rude for her to ask the young man what the devil he called her for. In the background, she heard shuffling and mumbled greetings –a few, surprisingly, directed towards her. She turned and returned the greeting politely, but quickly, lest she give the impression that she wasn't paying attention.

"My apologies, Miss Gunnarssen." Kov said suddenly, and Dagmar's eyes flitted back to the screen. Kov seemed to be growing less and less calm as the seconds ticked by. When the green-skinned alien swayed, ever-so-slightly, the Canadian immediately grew very concerned. "I am... having difficulties suppressing my emotions."

"Would you like to resume this conversation another time?" Dagmar asked sympathetically. What little she knew of Vulcans told her to treat the confession as delicately as possible.

"No," The young Vulcan male answered slowly –too slowly. He seemed strangely lethargic. "That is why I have called you, Miss Gunnarssen. I wish to ask..." –here, he seemed to struggle with the words- "...for your counsel. There is a matter which requires insight greater than my own."

The redhead blinked. Then why call her? She wasn't much older than he –in fact, Dagmar was fairly certain that Kov was the elder of the pair of them. What insight could she offer that an older Vulcan couldn't? If anything, she had less experience than the young man on the screen.

Except...

Suddenly, Dagmar had an inkling as to the problem. "Is your integration into Human society the problem?"

Almost as if it pained him, Kov reluctantly nodded. Worrying –Dagmar shouldn't have been able to assign any emotion to the movement whatsoever. "I confess some... difficulties. I wish to know how you coped."

This conversation should be held in private, Dagmar thought, not in an Andorian compound with open doorways and too-keen hearing. "I think we should continue this elsewhere."

In the background, someone who sounded suspiciously familiar shouted, "Spoilsport!"

Dagmar sighed.

"That would be... appreciated." Kov inclined his head. "What is a suitable time and location?"

Public places were out of the question, given the nature of the request. While Dagmar openly admitted that Vulcans were largely a mystery to her, in terms of _why_ they needed such extreme privacy and such, she understood that both a completely public place and a completely private location were unsuitable. One was not exclusive enough and the other was too exclusive. Better to find a balance –preferably somewhere that was open to the public but not in use, and also somewhere the Vulcan was familiar with.

"Are there any free study rooms on campus?"

"There are four such rooms in the eastern wing of the main building."

Perfect. Dagmar nodded and ordered, "Pick one and I'll be there in two hours."

The connection terminated.


	9. Disturbance

**NINE: Disturbance**

The study room was as drafty as it was empty, and that suited Dagmar just fine, given the circumstances. A night in the Andorian compound had made the muggy San Francisco day nearly unbearable, so the relatively cool room was a welcome reprieve. Still, it amused her how, even after over two hundred years of architectural advancements and technological innovations, some of these new fangled buildings still had good old drafts.

God, that thought made her feel old.

"I'll be honest with you Kov," Dagmar began, sitting on the desk behind her while Kov remained standing at stiff attention, eyes calculating and conflicted. "I'm not sure how much help I'll be. For all that I'm not as disconnected from this society as I was three years ago, I'm still not a part of it."

"I do not understand." The Vulcan tilted his head to one side, a shadow of a frown appearing. His hands, at his sides, twitched.

Abruptly, Dagmar recalled the conversation she'd had before heading out –first to her apartment to shower and change (no time for food, sadly)- from the Andorian compound.

* * *

><p><em>Thelen's antennae writhed about in agitation, harsh lines of his face tense with an imitation of a Human frown –an attempt, Dagmar realized, to impress upon her his disapproval. "Young Vulcans are volatile, Dagmar, and unpredictable –particularly in the state your friend seems to be in. He could easily turn violent."<em>

_Dagmar frowned. She knew Kov would be moody, but the possibility of violence honestly hadn't occurred to her. "I... guess, so, yes... What should I do, then?"_

_"Take me with you."_

_"No. I'm sorry, but no." Dagmar refused immediately. "Kov wants advice, in confidence. He won't talk to me if you're there."_

_The Andorian shifted and wiggled hisantennae to express his disapproval and tension. Shral approached from the redheaded woman's left, adjusting some minute clasp in his dark leather uniform, and proffered, "I may have a solution."_

_Deliberately, she ignored the set of antennae pointed at her. Whatever the hell the gesture meant, it wasn't her problem at the moment._

_Thelen nodded to the aide, antennae straightening in surprise as Shral held out his hand, palm facing upwards, and revealed... a hair pin?_

_Confused, Dagmar examined the accessory more closely. It was silver, with a long, narrow shaft and a wide, thin head stylized into a symbol she had seen throughout the Andorian portion of the Embassy –the Andorian emblem, an artistic representation of their home planet, Andoria, and the gas giant it revolved around, Andor._

_"This is what you might call a panic button." Shral explained. "The head of the pin contains touch-sensitive receptors as opposed to pressure sensitive receptors –there is no button or catch- as well as what Humans commonly called a 'bug.' If you feel threatened, touch the head of the pin and a security team will be alerted to your location."_

_Talk about microtechnology... The things that could be made nowadays –that could be invented!_

_Something niggled at the Canadian, who glanced up with blue eyes and observed Shral and Thelen's reactions. Their antennae were straight –too straight. It was a sign of careful self-control, that, and Dagmar didn't really like the connection her brain made._

_"This is reconnaissance technology, isn't it?" She asked warily, eyeing the Ambassador's aide in particular. "Black-ops stuff? ...Shral, are you supposed to have this?"_

_Shral slowly curved his antennae together in a carefully controlled shrug and just as warily answered. "Perhaps."_

_Oh dear. Why, oh _why_, did Dagmar just _know_ that no one else knew about these snazzy little hairpins? God only knew what else was a listening device or a panic button. Wisely, the redhead decided, "I'm not going to mention this. To anyone. Ever. Quite frankly, I didn't even want to know that these existed."_

_More importantly, just where did an aide get a hold of that sort of technology?_

* * *

><p>"I will never really be a part of this society, Kov." Dagmar continued calmly, fighting against the faint, nervous impulse to play with her hair (or her new hair pin) as the impulse grew in strength. "I work with people who say and do things that don't make sense to me, who use phrases and idioms that I don't recognize, who forbid and condone things in a context that I don't have. I don't understand these people" –strange, to refer to her brethren in such a disassociated way, but only on the surface- "any more than you do. I just pretend to."<p>

Kov considered this for some time, silently, with his head bowed forward and his hands clasping behind his back. Dagmar waited, patiently, feeling that the longer the young man contemplated her words, the farther the possibilities of a sudden mood swing seemed. At length, the Vulcan inquired, "Then I have no chance of true integration?"

His eyes, round, dark, were large and solemn and... just a little bit _sad_, which concerned and terrified her in equal parts. This boy didn't need advice –he needed a Vulcan who knew how to fix him. What the hell was she doing there? She couldn't help him. She didn't even know where to start!

"That's not true." Dagmar insisted, frowning. "It just means that I have a lot of trouble with it."

"What would you advise, then?"

A struggle, a long moment groping for words to put shapes and sounds to a concept. "Observe. Watch people –watch how they walk and talk and interact with each other. Learn the things done between strangers and friends and when to tell the difference. Listen to the phrases and the idioms and how they're used. Look at how people dress for different occasion, how close or how far away they stand from one another... Just _observe_."

Agitation; the faintest downwards twitch of full lips. Almost a sneer. "That is _all_?"

She shrugged, trying not to react to the hostility. "It's the best advice that I have."

Without another word, Kov turned on his heel and left, shoulders tense and angry. As soon as the door slid shut with a pressurized hiss, the Terran sighed in relief –and then made a beeline for a console.

"Once again, it is agreeable to see you, Miss Gunnarssen." Varek answered her call, dressed in stark, stiff robes and holding a PADD in one hand.

Dagmar skipped formalities in favour of getting right to business. "Varek, a young man –a Vulcan- is in emotional distress. Are you in the area?"

Varek immediately set the PADD down and gave his former student his full attention. "Yes. What is the identity of the young man in question?"

"His name is Kov. He's a xenolingusitics student at Starfleet." One of the first; Starfleet Academy would become a pariah amongst schools should its first Vulcan student suffer a breakdown. More importantly, Kov could be permanently damaged by a chemical imbalance in his brain –likely the source of his lack of emotional control. That much, Dagmar knew for certain.

"I'm worried, Varek. He's expressing agitation, distress... anger, even." Dagmar gave further details with a furrowed brow and an unhappy grimace. "He asked me for advice earlier today –he's having trouble coping with living amongst Humans- but none of what I said seemed to help; he just stormed out without a word."

Varek blinked slowly, taking a moment to consider the information. "Has he touched you –your hand or your face, perhaps?"

Dagmar blinked, rearing her head back a little in surprise. She didn't understand the connection. "No... He's a touch telepath; I never touch touch-telepaths."

"But has Kov attempted to make contact with _you_?" Varek pressed, leaning towards the console. His tone was... flat, but she heard the faintest traces of urgency there. "This is _very_ important, Miss Gunnarssen."

Dagmar shook her head. "Never. He's always been very professional."

"Have you ever offered him food or drink or served him at a meal?"

"No. I took Kov and a Denobulan student, Zepht, out for dinner, though –as a goodwill gesture for helping me with some translations, but we were served by a waitress."

Varek frowned impressively, and that alone gave Dagmar an idea of how serious the situation –whatever the situation actually _was_- might be. "Have you eaten... I believe you refer to it as 'finger food' in front of this man?"

"Not that I can recall, no."

Her confusion and worry was growing exponentially as the questioned delved further into her interactions with Kov. Had she ever paid him a high compliment? Not really, but she'd told him his translations were extremely accurate on a few occasions. Had she ever given the impression of favouritism? No –she was equally fond of the Denobulan and hadn't treated them very differently when they'd all gotten together that one time. Had she ever worn something that Vulcans could construe as provocative while in Kov's presence? ...Most of her wardrobe could be called that, by Vulcan standards, but nothing especially interesting, no.

Quite quickly, her patience ran out. "Varek, please just tell me what's going on. I'm worried for Kov and I don't understand what's wrong with him! Why are you asking all of these things? Why are they important?"

Varek looked grave –or as grave as a Vulcan of his age and self-control can look. "I believe Kov is approaching a time of great volatility. It is not something we speak of to outsiders."

That did absolutely nothing to reassure her. "Well, is he going to be _okay_?"

"Perhaps." Varek offered after a long, telling moment. "I will contact the appropriate people. Please do not concern yourself any further with Kov's well-being, Miss Gunnarssen; once he is located, the cause of his emotional outbursts will be dealt with. In fact, I would advise that you have no further contact with him without a chaperone."

A _chaperone_? Why would she need a chaperone? And what did that mean –'_a time of great volatility_'? Frustrated, nostrils flaring as she sighed angrily, Dagmar nodded and agreed to follow the Vulcan professor's advice. She didn't understand it –didn't understand anything beyond the fact that Kov wasn't well and Varek wouldn't tell her why- but she would listen.

Despite her better judgement, and ever nerve and fibre that demanded that she find the professor and shake the answer out of him.

The connection terminated and Dagmar ran a hand over her hair –only for her fingers to find the shaft of the hair pin she was wearing. With a jolt, she belatedly remembered that her hair pin was both a panic button _and_ a listening device.

It would be too much to ask for Thelen and Shral to have resisted the temptation to listen in, she knew. Entirely too much to ask.

Out loud, she sighed again and mumbled, "It's okay, guys. The pin was completely unnecessary. I'll drop by and give it back."

Silence answered her, heavy with the weight of worries and dissatisfaction.

The hair pin wasn't a two-way communicator, after all.


	10. Breaking Bread

**TEN: Breaking Bread**

The hair pin was returned discreetly, with little to no fuss, though Shral was frowning with his antennae and Thelen appeared puzzled. Neither said anything, though, and Dagmar tried to push the matter from her mind, instead suggesting that they go find some breakfast –a meal long overdue, as far as she was concerned.

Dagmar opted not to comment when the shaft of the pin was tucked into the sleeve of Shral's uniform, the head detached and slipped into a fold near the collar of the leather suit. It occurred to her that Shral was not exactly a typical aide. Intriguingly, Thelen didn't appear surprised at all, amber-yellow eyes taking in the movements without comment. Looking at the pair's antennas wasn't helpful –for all that she could tell, they indicated polite interest only.

Both aide and security officer had the morning off, which suspiciously coinciding with the fact that she had the day off as well (well, technically, the entire week) so breakfast took place in the compound. Jokingly, Thelen offered her another serving of that godawful beetle dish –and nearly had a mug of bitter _katheka_ (the Andorian equivalent of coffee) thrown at him for it.

"_Never again_." She muttered darkly, eyeing the dish in Thelen's hand as one might a proffered glass of drain cleaner. Thelen's antennae bowed towards each other and the dish was set back on the table. The arrangement was not unlike what she had seen in the restaurant –low-set round tables accessible to large groups. The only thing missing from this arrangement was the hot pot of bubbling oil.

And a more tolerable ambient temperature, that is.

"Your friend will be alright." Shral assured her abruptly, though his attention was focused on his own mug of _katheka_. For once, his antennae weren't directed at her in that strange, pointed way; rather, they were a shade on the droopy side –something Dagmar interpreted as mild depression or weariness. Verdant eyes cut to her, antennae twitching faintly in her direction.

Dagmar's interested sparked. Leaning towards the aide, she asked, quietly, "You know what's wrong with him?"

Shral nodded after a long moment and murmured, "It is a Vulcan problem –a chemical imbalance triggered in their males upon reaching a certain age. If anything, your friend is experiencing the imbalance a few years later than is usual."

That... didn't explain much, really. She already knew that some sort of chemical imbalance was involved. She just didn't know _why_ it was happening or how serious it was.

Her lack of comprehension must have shown, because Thelen sighed, barely audible, and stated the crux of the matter bluntly. "It is a mating drive, Dagmar. Your friend will be sent back to Vulcan to get married and live logically ever after, but don't ever ask him about it. It's considered a very embarrassing affair."

Dagmar _stared_.

Oh, wow.

No wonder Varek wouldn't talk.

Something occurred to her then, and Dagmar poked Shral's arm. When the Andorian aide hummed his acknowledgement, she asked curiously, "Do _Andorians_ have problems like that?"

Shral startled and stared at her as if she'd gone completely mad, antennae ramrod straight with either alarm or horror –Dagmar couldn't quite tell. To her left, Thelen choked on his _fridd_, an Andorian tea served frozen solid and drunk as it thawed, and sputtered an empathic, "_No_."

"Oh." The Terran woman deflated slightly at the looks she was getting. "_What_? I was just wondering!"

Needless to say, Dagmar didn't ask too many more question during the rest of her breakfast, which consisted of a sweet spice cake and some sort of toasted open-faced sandwich consisting of shredded redbat meat, a paste made out of a red vegetable called _dreaak_ and –much to Shral's horror- some mozzarella that Dagmar had added on a whim.

Andorians weren't especially fond of cheese in their ordinary diet. In fact, they tended to reserve dairy products for their offspring only.

Naturally, this meant that Dagmar spent most of her lunch breaks gleefully scandalizing her Andorian friends by adding copious amounts of cream to her coffee. And, needless to say, the task of finding a few slices of mozzarella in the compound bordered on some sort of epic quest.

Towards the end of the meal, Shral indicated a dish Dagmar had never seen before. It was similar to a custard in appearance, and served in small portions –probably a dessert of some sort, the Canadian determined- in what looked like a small, thin pie shell that had been folded in on itself and shaped so that it resembled an sixteen-pointed star. The pastries were delicate and small, one easily fitting into the palm of Dagmar's hand, and when Shral handed her one she noted that the dessert had a faint fruity aroma.

"Have you tried _shevt'ak_ before?" The aide asked curiously. Dagmar shook her head. "It's a popular dessert on Andoria. Its name also doubles as an endearment –often from a parent to a child, but not always. Not unlike, I understand, many Human endearments."

Intrigued, Dagmar tried the tiny pastry –and was surprised by the sharp citrus tang where she had expected a more mellow flavour from the creamy custard. The pastry itself was soft and not particularly sweet, balancing out the custard, but it was spiced with something that tasted like a mild form of cinnamon.

That she really shouldn't be eating pastries –no matter how delicious- for breakfast occurred to the redhead, but only very briefly. Quite frankly, she could happily live off of _shevt'ak_ for the rest of her natural life. Or any Andorian foods, for that matter, so long as she never saw those horrible speckled beetle things ever again.

"I think she likes it." Thelen commented wryly, and Dagmar realized with a start she'd made a happy cooing noise.

Oops.


	11. Tolerable

**ELEVEN: Tolerable**

It was a fairly cool day –unusual, for San Francisco in the summer- and Dagmar thought it smelled like rain. The red-headed woman had left the Andorian compound shortly after breakfast, more out of an ingrained respect for hospitality and a desire not to overstay he welcome than any really need to leave, but instead of heading home, she'd found herself wandering around the city. There was a sort of restlessness in her that day, a near tangible thing like too much caffeine in her blood, that set her at a brisk pace, long legs striding in the first direction that took her fancy.

A handful of hours had passed before the Canadian came across a familiar face –it was one of the Vulcan aides, whose name, much to her embarrassment, evaded her. Choosing her words carefully, she had asked after Kov's health, mentioning that she'd heard that he was unwell and hoped for a swift recovery. The aide agreed to pass along her 'well wishes' stoically, giving Dagmar no indication as to whether or not he was already aware of Kov's condition, and then left.

Rolling her eyes and reflecting that Vulcans were not much for conversation, Dagmar moved on. There was no particular destination in mind that day –mindless strolling was the order of the day. She spent some time passing through the Academy campus, greeting what students she knew, and visiting a stocky and intimidating Czech named Grigor who owned a pub near the pier. He was a tall man, built like a tank, and well past his prime with touches of grey at his temples but still strong, and his face seemed to sit in a natural scowl that belied his fundamentally friendly nature.

When Terra Prime (an organization that Dagmar didn't know much about, but understood to be violent xenophobes) had been more vocal about her presence –divided into the half that wanted her there and the half that hated her on principle- Grigor had been one of the ordinary, decent citizens to help her with the hecklers and the hurled insults. One a particularly bad day, when she had been heckled by a group of women determined to declaim everything from her intelligence to her parenthood as primitive and a step backwards for all of humanity, Grigor had appeared from one of the nearby shops –a quiet little pub that he bartended- and pulled her off the street and onto a barstool. Free drink included.

Ever since, she and he had been fast friends –more so when she helped the stoic man name his kittens. His cat Misha had run away from home and came back with a surprise, as it were, leaving Grigori with the task of naming six or seven new furballs. Grigori was a fundamentally sensible, solid sort of man, as honest as they came, but lacked much in the way of imagination; he was a bartender because his father was a bartender and he had neither the ambition nor imagination to wonder about doing something else, despite being quite bright. Thus, Dagmar had offered to help.

Thus, Grigori's feline roommates were named Vlad, Vanya, Klaus, Boris, and Fluffles.

They'd arm-wrestled over each name, and Dagmar seriously suspected she'd only won the last round for Fluffles because the Czech felt sorry for her; arm-wrestling wasn't exactly her forte.

"And you are enjoying your work, eh?" Grigor asked, his accent thick but understandable. He was wiping down the bar counter top and setting up chairs in preparation for the early evening crowd. It was half past four.

"Mmhm!" Dagmar nodded enthusiastically. "I mean, the translation side isn't as interesting, but I'm enjoying working with the Andorians and I've made a couple friends. The Tellerites, not so much, though."

"Da. They are _wery_ rude." Grigor agreed with a knowing nod. He'd had the misfortune of catering to a gaggle of Tellerites before it was well known that they're version of being polite was to be horrendously rude. "I am not liking zem so much –more than before, but still not so much, too. But ze Andorians are good, sensible people –zey like _quiet_ and zey like _drinking_!"

The toothy grin that topped off the Czech's enthusiastic approval would have terrified anyone who didn't know that Grigori wasn't a Slavic Murder Machine.

"And the Vulcans?" She wondered aloud with a knowing smile.

"Bah! _Miserable_!" Grigor declaimed. His accent dragged out the vowels on the first and last syllables – '_meee_sreee_bull!_'- as he waved the question away with a dismissive gesture. "Zey don't drink, don't eat meat like sensible persons, don't laugh... _Wulcan_ must be a terrible place!"

Dagmar smiled and nursed her raised her glass –dark, spiced rum the colour of burnt amber that sat heavy on her tongue and burned all the way down- in a wordless toast. Even so, she said, "Oh, they're not so bad. You just have to find the right ones."

Life in the twenty-third century wasn't loads of fun, but there were little moments –like there, in Grigor's pub, an hour before opening- that made it tolerable.

"You've stopped fighting, I see." Grigor observed with keen, dark eyes. He was in an unusually good mood that day; the Czech was not normally quite so chatty. "I thought it helped?"

Dagmar nodded. At first, in the months after her untimely arrival, the twenty-first century woman had suppressed her grief and rage, had funnelled it into fighting and fencing and any other activity that would tire her out too much to feel. She still did some of those things –swam and ran and kept herself fit and strong beneath the stiff and formal clothes inflicted upon her by her profession- but the time for fighting was done. She'd done a number on herself that way –punch ups in bars that she won by sheer wit and the good sense to put her back to a corner, martial arts training without the safeties on; stupid, reckless things. Things that made her hurt physically so she could maybe stop hurting emotionally.

The one good thing her assigned counsellor had done was shake her out of that phase, short-lived as it was. Dagmar was thankful for that, in hindsight.

"I still train," She shrugged simply. "But I don't fight anymore -not just for the sake of fighting."

"And vould that be vhy you did not fight this Fox man?" Grigor asked narrow, perceptive eyes and a faint curl at the corner of his mouth that passed for a tiny smile. "Not fighting just to fight?"

Dagmar blinked. Grigor snorted. "Andorians like drinking and quiet, but sometimes, vhen moon is blue, they talk." A shrug, then –"Moon must be wery blue, though."

She snorted, and left the question unanswered; nothing needed to be said.

***  
>The contrast between her apartment and the Andorian compound was like night and day. Where the compound had been filled with colours (often in combinations that clashed violently individually but worked together as a whole; the symbolism was not lost on her) her apartment was filled with stark shades of grey and neutral beiges. Where tapestries and bright draperies had hung around in near blinding oranges, greens, and yellows, her curtains were somewhat less than exciting –a brownish beige that differed so little from the carpet and the furniture that her mind seemed to glaze over it most of the time.<p>

Almost as soon as she walked in that evening, Dagmar was sick of the place.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to go to Andoria with Thelen and Shral.


	12. Cuddle

**TWELVE: Cuddle**

There was something about sickbays and hospitals that never failed to bring out a strange sense of... not relaxation, but calm –at least for Dagmar it did. When she had been a young girl, she'd fallen ill quite often and, thus, had spent quite a bit of time at many such establishments. The new offices and sickbays were a bit different in layout and appearance, but some things were very much the same; the clean and sharp smell of sanitizing agents, the quiet semi-constant whirs and beeps of machinery... As a child, Dagmar gradually began to associate doctors and hospitals with the idea of "feeling better" –of professionalism and cool efficiency, of lemon flavoured lollipops in exchange for sitting still for a blood test, of her family doctor constantly remarking that watching her and her brother grow up made him feel old. The memory brought a smile to her face, as the twenty-first century woman sat on a bio-bed and swung her legs backwards and forwards absent-mindedly.

"I see you're in a good mood," The doctor, a Denobulan male with fairer skin than Zepht commented with a pleased smile.

He was the first medical professional she'd encountered in the twenty-third century –her very first alien- and Dagmar had concluded that he fell firmly within the category of a _good doctor_. Those were rare, back in the twenty-first century –mingled in with _okay doctors_ and _bad doctors_ and _stressed/rushed doctors_. Despite her initial intimidation –the strange blue eyes and the facial ridges had alarmed her, to her later chagrin, quite considerably- the male had focused as much on her injuries as he had on her anxiety.

"I like doctors." Dagmar confessed, before realizing that sounded a bit awkward. "Well, mostly. I like _good_ doctors –which you are. I used to get sick a lot as a kid and my family doctor was a very good, very nice doctor, so I never really associated doctors with anything bad or unpleasant."

"Thank you," Phlox offered a slight wider smile as he picked up a scanner and examined her. "So I understand you're working as a translator now –quite a feat! How are you finding it?"

As the Denobulan moved about with the scanner and its stylus, Dagmar had to stop swinging her legs, lest she kick the doctor. "The translations themselves are a bit dull sometimes, but I like the people I work with –mostly Andorians, since I learned a few of their dialects as well as the main language- and I'm learning a lot."

"Good, good! Your therapy is going well also, I hope?" The scanner beeped and Phlox frowned impressively. "Hm. I'll need to give you a booster shot –your iron levels are below normal."

Great. Hyposprays. Dagmar grimaced.

As for the question about therapy... how to answer? Not so much, my therapist sucks? Not the best answer in the world. No, but my Vulcan professor makes up for Dr. Shore's shoddy training? Perhaps not. At length, Dagmar hesitantly answered, "Dr. Shore wasn't very helpful, actually. I ended up getting more help from Professor Varek –my xenobiology professor from first year."

Cold metal pressed against her neck and Dagmar tensed subconsciously –which, of course, made the sting even worse than usual. Phlox tsked and reminded her for the umpteenth time not to tense up before a shot. Sullenly, Dagmar debated demanding a lollipop for sitting still.

"Still having trouble relating to Humans?" Phlox asked sympathetically, setting the hypo down on a nearby tray. A random critter in a nearby cage shrieked and Phlox scolded it, "None of that! I just fed you!"

Toying with the sleeve of her shirt, Dagmar nodded and shrugged. "It's... hard. I get along better with the non-Humans better than I do with the Humans."

Phlox hummed as he puttered about with vials of whatever it was he was loading into another hypospray. "Interesting that you refer to your own species in such a detached way –is that how you feel about other Humans? That they're different from you?"

Defensively, tiredly, the redheaded woman sighed, "It's the other way around, mostly. Whenever people talk about me, or the society I grew up in, they're always saying things like '_her_ people' –like a good number of the population aren't descendants of my family. I'm tired of arguing and defending myself from people who don't want to listen anyway. It's easier to just go along with it."

Phlox didn't comment, turning to her with another hypospray. "This one's for a slight hormone imbalance –I believe a result of the stage of your reproductive cycle. You have slightly abnormal levels of testosterone; I'm going to balance it out with slightly higher levels of estrogens and progesterone," –Then, hesitantly- "You may feel the need to cry or throw things. Please refrain –you might startle the animals. Some of them are new and easily frightened."

Indeed, there were at least a dozen new cages scattered about the bay that Dagmar didn't remember from her last visit, nearly a year ago. While she was observing some of the cages, the occupants shielded by greenery and rocks and whatever else the creatures required, the crafty physician took the opportunity to press the hypospray to her neck. Dagmar swore at the unexpected sting and gave Phlox a half-hearted withering look.

As it happened, the hormones didn't affect her mood –much. "I feel... kind of sad. Not about to cry-" Phlox had stepped away from her pre-emptively, lest she decide to fling herself at him and sob onto his shoulder or something equally ridiculous. "-But more, I don't know... like moping, I guess."

"Here!" Phlox picked up a small cage from the counter behind him and thrust it into her arms without any further ado. "Cuddle that for a moment."

It was a marked moment of hesitation that Dagmar gingerly lifted the lid to the cage, half expecting something with sharp teeth to jump out and lunge for her face. What she found inside the cage was... well, it looked like a ball of fur. Lifting the thing carefully, it certainly felt like a ball of mousy-brown fur, with a small, round body beneath all of the fluff.

When the thing purred suddenly, Dagmar nearly dropped it. Alarmed, she looked up at the Denobulan with wide eyes and asked, "What is it?"

"That," Phlox answered cheerfully, folding his arms and observing. "Is a Tribble."

"A Tribble?" Dagmar had no idea was that was. Setting the cage down on the biobed beside her with one hand and cradling the furry thing in her other hand, the redhead experimentally pet the thing. It purred again and... _wiggled_. Like some sort of limbless hamster. Just, without the ears or the eyes or any visible head, either.

Sort of creepy actually.

"As animal therapy goes amongst Humans, Tribbles are very effective. In fact, they produce a pheromone that Humans find to be very calming –soothing, really- though Tribbles don't appear to affect Vulcans at all." Phlox continued as Dagmar ran her fingers over the rabbit-soft fur. He frowned for a moment and then added, "Well, so long as the breeding is kept under control. They're asexual creatures and –as the Human saying goes- they breed like rabbits, and in remarkably large litters, too."

"That would be a problem." Dagmar agreed. She glanced around the medbay for other, simila cages and, upon finding none, asked, "Why don't you have more, then?"

Phlox smiled, "Did you know Tribbles are edible? They're a very high source of omega oils and a set of proteins which, for Denobulans, are essential to maintaining our health."

Dagmar clutched the Tribble to her protectively, horrified, but Phlox only laughed, smiling his Grinchy smile.

Belatedly, the redhead realized he was joking, and stopped squishing the Tribble quite so much.

"Not to worry, I shan't be eating any Tribbles! I sterilized this one." The doctor assured, still grinning grotesquely. "At least, I'm fairly certain I did. It's difficult to tell with Tribbles."

By the time Dagmar left Phlox's medbay with a clean bill of health, she was surprised to find that she felt very calm –almost serene, even- and mentally praised Tribble-kind throughout the universe. They were fairly adorable, actually, once you got past the mental image of a headless, limbless, wiggly hamster.

That semi-serenity faded somewhat, however, when Dagmar caught a familiar face lurking in her peripheral vision. It was Kov –or at least, she thought it was- but when she turned to face the Vulcan, there was no one there. Frowning, feeling eyes on her despite the relatively empty street, Dagmar decided that hurrying home for once couldn't hurt.

Kov wasn't supposed to be on Earth anymore.


	13. Prickly

**THIRTEEN: Prickly**

It was business as usual when Dagmar finally returned to work. Despite her transfer to Thoris' personal staff, she was still stuck with translating long-winded legalese about wine tariffs and the restrictions on technological exchanges, as well as the ban on bringing _chocolate_, of all things, onto Andoria.

Interesting fact –chocolate was lethal to Andorians. Especially Argellian chocolate. God only knew what an Argellian was, though; Dagmar hadn't run into any that she could recall.

In addition to her usual translations, though, Dagmar found herself handling –much to her bewilderment- things equivalent to Andorian fairytales and folklore; stories about ghosts and legends of proud and valiant warriors from Andoria's long history of warfare and honourable combat. The stories themselves were quiet enjoyable, but what she was doing with them was beyond her. Maybe it was part of some cultural exchange?

Stretching stiff limbs as best she could from her seat, the twenty-first century Terran slouched and put her feet up on the seat of the chair opposite of her, comfortable in the relative seclusion of the small office she worked in. Being promoted had one perk –she had a tiny office as opposed to the communal area she had shared with the other translators. It was not particularly spacious, and when she had arrived it was almost as Spartan as her apartment; now, a few of her friends in the Embassy had dropped by with random knickknacks and other small decorations –including a colourful, cold-resistant _vithi_ plant and a pot of honey, as a joke from Thelen.

His grasp on Human humour really was improving by leaps and bounds, the woman thought fondly.

Not long into her work day, the silence became... distracting. She was used to speaking to people throughout the day, and this new confinement made her restless and bored. After a few hours of tapping her fingers in various patterns and humming off-tune snippets old what people nowadays referred to as ancient music, Dagmar finally resorted to asking the computer to play some music on low volume. She was nearly done this part of her work, anyway, so she figured that it would be off soon enough before anyone grew too terribly annoyed.

Also, Thoris was off in a meeting, so he couldn't scold her.

And, for the record, being scolded by an Andorian like Thoris was terrifying.

Four hours, six amendments to the trade agreement, and no less than twelve folktales later, Dagmar set the last of the PADDs down with a sigh of relief, her muscles stiff from inactivity and the cold. The computer, despite being randomized, had fixated on Michael Buble's various works –most of which she knew and a few others she didn't- and it was to his smooth vocal jazz that Dagmar set about flexing her hands and rubbing the cricks out of her neck and shoulder. Her legs weren't particularly stiff, given that she'd been wiggling her feet to the various beats the computer came up with behind her desk, but just about everything else was.

Oh, the joys of working with people from an ice planet.

"May I join you?"

Dagmar jumped, startled, as Shral stepped into her cozy little office. Hesitantly, she nodded her permission and then gestured for the Andorian to have a seat, noting for the umpteenth time that his antennae were _still_ pointing at her. At least they were, until the male focused on the music playing quietly in the background.

Andorians were very fond of music. In fact, their language –and its various dialects- was based on it. Their language, while having similar inner workings to English, also integrated an array of rhythms and lilts and tones which added further depth and meaning to the things they said. Even if she hadn't been able to understand the language, she would have honestly enjoyed just listening to the sound of it.

"How goes it, Shral?" Dagmar asked after a moment, determinedly resuming her (ineffectual) neck massage. That crick was particularly stubborn... "Did the meeting go well?"

Thoris rarely went anywhere without his aide, after all, so if Shral was back then so was Thoris, which meant the meeting was either called into recess or over for the day.

Shral made himself comfortable in a nearby chair, observing the random little knickknacks and letting his strange, verdant eyes linger longest on the _vithi_ plant and accompanying honey pot. After a moment, he returned his attention –and antennae- to her. "It went... slowly. The Tellerite Ambassador is particularly reluctant to alter more of the trade agreement, but I believe Ambassador Thoris has won this round."

Dagmar nodded again, dropping her hands from her neck to lace them together on her lap as she considered this. Knowing relations between Tellerites and Andorians –never mind either of those with Vulcans, who were there to discuss... some random tariff; Dagmar didn't do much translating for that side of things- the talks could still go on for a while. At length, she offered lamely, "Well, it'll be interesting to see who wins what by the end of it."

Shral gave an antennae-shrug and then leaned forwards a bit, towards her in a manner that made her think of old spy movies and clandestine meetings in the night. Unconsciously, Dagmar leaned forwards a bit too, and waited for the Andorian to speak.

"I don't wish to alarm you," Shral began. Oh crap. What's happened now? "But the Vulcan you spoke with –Kov, was it? He did not arrive on Vulcan."

Dagmar blinked, uncomprehending. "What?"

"The transport departed with this Kov on board, heading for Vulcan, but when the ship arrived, he couldn't be found." Shral elaborated carefully. "I am not certain he ever set foot on the transport ship, myself. There are ways to fool even the most accurate of sensors."

Flashes of that moment, after leaving Phlox's office, flickered behind her eyes.

Shral was watching her expression too carefully to have missed the way it paled, ever-so-slightly, and her carefully added, "I do not think he will follow us to Andoria, however."

"Andoria?" A bit presumptuous on his part; she hadn't exactly accepted that invitation yet.

"As a member of Ambassador Thoris' personal staff, you're duty-bound to follow when he returns to Andoria." Shral reminded her, as if this were an irreversible truth. And it was, she realized. Being the man's personal translator was more than just a desk job, after all.

Suddenly, the prospect of leaving Earth felt uncomfortable. Odd, since it hadn't before. Dagmar chalked it up to nerves. She had a problem with nerves, truth be told –had thrown up on the morning she was supposed to start working in the Embassy for the first time from it, and had nearly done so again that morning- and she fervently hoped that wouldn't ever happen again.

Especially not in front of the Andorians...

Dear god, _never_ in front of them! She'd never live it down!

In the real world, beyond her mind and its ten thousand tiny inner anxieties, she offered a wry half-smile and said, "Good thing I like Andorian food then, huh?"

Shral snorted, antennae curving towards each other in a shallow bow of vague amusement. Returning to the original topic of Kov, he continued, "Should you encounter this Kov again, what do you intend to do?"

An interesting question. For all that Dagmar was fond of Kov, in a distant sort of way, she was also disturbed by the instability he'd displayed. The idea of a violent Vulcan was nothing short of terrifying, actually. If the unpredictability wasn't a concern, that even a young adult like Kov was three times her own strength certainly was. A direct confrontation of any kind was to be avoided, in light of that. But, at the same time, she wasn't certain she would turn the male away if he asked for her help again. She'd feel obligated, as a friend (even if of a distant sort of nature,) to try to help.

Not, she reminded herself, that she really _could_ help.

"I don't know." Dagmar confessed. And she didn't. Not really. All she could think up in terms of strategies involved avoidance. She could probably outrun Kov –at least, long enough to get to some form of safety- and she could stick to large crowds and public areas. Direct confrontation was out of the question; the probability of her winning a fight against _any_ Vulcan, much less an angry, erratic one, was low even on a good day. Add in the fact that she'd been warned in no uncertain terms to avoid physical contact with Kov under any circumstances... "Aside from the obvious avoidance strategies –stick with large crowds, that sort of thing- I'm not sure that there's much I _can_ do. I don't have the legal right to take out a threat pre-emptively, and I'm not completely convinced that Kov _is_ a threat to me."

With a disinterested air, Shral reached over and plucked a purple _vithi_ flower from amid the vicious tangles of sharp, curved thorns and the dark, razor-edged leaves. His hand came out unscathed –something Dagmar envied as she recalled her earlier attempt resulting in several cuts and scratches; she rubbed at the multitude of tiny lacerations absent-mindedly, but without any real embarrassment. He chewed the fleshy plant thoughtfully, and without making any use of the honey pot. Dagmar wondered if, along with finding salt spicy, Andorians tasted bitter flavours differently as well.

"You're much better at that than I am." She congratulated him wryly, lifting the offending hand of hers and displaying the cuts with a strange sort of pride. Any other person from this time and era would have run for a dermal regenerator; Dagmar, used to cuts and scrapes from her pervious life-style, saw no point in making such a fuss.

"Red blood is... most disconcerting. It never quite looks real." Shral commented, eyeing her hand. Dagmar refrained from expressing a similar sentiment about blue blood. Then, standing and gesturing for her to approach, the Andorian arrogantly commanded, "Observe -I will show you how it is done."

Snorting in amusement –oh, Andorians and their arrogance!- Dagmar stood and walked around her desk to stand beside the aide. She opted not to comment, despite being thoroughly annoyed, when the Andorian had her move to stand on his other side not by asking her but by lifting her by the waist without so much as a by-your-leave and moving her himself.

'_Yes, yes, you can lift ten times your own body weight,_' she thought caustically. The Canadian didn't bother to hide the irritation in her expression –just as the Andorian didn't bother to acknowledge it. Andorians and their _arrogance_! '_Like a bloody ant. Next time, _ask_!_'

Under Shral's guidance –arrogant and vaguely condescending as it was- and despite her irritation, Dagmar did manage to liberate a few of the flowers without much damage to herself. The thorns were the biggest problem, being curved inwards as opposed to outwards –meaning it was easy enough to reach the flowers, but removing them was another thing entirely. They weren't unlike barbed arrows, she thought to herself as she reached into the dark, knotted plant, which punctured flesh easily enough but hooked into and further damaged surrounding tissue when one tried to pull it out.

"Ow!"

Point in case.

"Your advice _sucks_!" Dagmar whined –and, no, she did not see anything wrong with a twenty-something year old woman whining when she had a large, hook like thorn stuck in the fleshy part of her thumb and threatening to tear something.

Shral didn't dignify that with a comment, reaching forward and taking hold of her wrist. "Stay still."

"I'm try-_ow_!" It was pure reflex born of years of dealing with a petty younger sibling that drove her to whack Shral's arm, she swore! ...It did absolutely nothing to mitigate the absolutely scathing look she received for it, though. She grimaced and offered an awkward apology, eyeing the flicking antennae warily. "Sorry. Reflex."

"To _beat_ the person trying to help you?" Andorian facial muscles may not have been as developed as a Human's, but that eyebrow quirk would put a Vulcan to shame. A long-fingered hand reached into a different gap in the snarls of barbs and jagged edges, deftly finding a soft, unprotected patch of the same twisted stem that she was caught on and gently pulling the stem –and, by association, the thorn out of and away from her hand.

Carefully extricating her hand from the mess of sharp edges, Dagmar examined the damage. The puncture was surprisingly deep, but that made sense, given the length and size of the thorns themselves. Each one was about half an inch long, four or five millimetres wide, and serrated on the inside edge. A thin rivulet of blood dribbled down her arm. "I used to wrestle with my friends a lot, back in my time."

"I would not advise engaging any members of the Imperial Guard –or any Andorian- thusly." The aide commented archly. It was difficult, to fight the impish impulse to whack his arm again –just to see what he would do- but she did.

If only out of a sense of self preservation.

"I don't _plan_ to," Dagmar answered back, just as archly.

To hear her say it, it would seem like such a long time ago. Ages and eras gone in the blink of an eye.

Every memory was as sharp and fresh as the cut on her hand, as the sting of torn tissue contacting saliva. People have always wondered about the instinctive impulse to stick a lacerated digit in one's mouth. It wasn't that saliva had healing properties, as some thought, but rather that a few enzymes in Human saliva killed a select number of bacteria and the act of washing the wound with saliva helped to flush out any dirt from the cut so that it would heal cleanly.

The bitter metallic tang on her tongue was unpleasant.

Shral stared, and Dagmar belatedly realized that what she was doing might be considered offensive by Andorians. Withdrawing her hand, she offered an apologetic grimace and shrug.

"Sorry," she said. "Instinct."

"Andorians do the same." The aide revealed carefully, and his antennae had ceased their irked flicking to point at her again. She _really_ needed to find out what that meant. It was getting a bit ridiculous. "But a dermal regenerator would be more effective."

Dagmar just shrugged and said she didn't feel like hunting one down.

Another droplet of blood escaped from the cut, but this time Dagmar just wiped it away with a finger. Her eyes fell on the honey pot beside the prickly plant. Ancient Egyptians used to coat wounds –particularly those made by surgery- with honey as it was antibacterial, antiseptic, and partially antiviral. Nearly as good as a regenerator, really. Besides, what were a few scars, really? It wasn't like the world would explode if she had one or two.

Shral was equal parts horrified and intrigued when she lifted the comb out of the glass pot and dribbled honey onto the cut. It stung –of course, it stung- but it saved her the trouble of wandering around in search of random medical equipment.

"Honey is antibacterial, antiseptic, and partially antiviral." Dagmar explained to the aide, with her own touch of arrogance for a change. "Ancient Egyptians used it to seal wounds and keep them free of infection. Besides, what do I care about scars? It's not like I'm a hand model; my work doesn't require me to have _pretty_ hands."

Slowly, like the beginnings of an avalanche watched from some distant safety, Shral smiled the calf-eyed smile of an endeared Andorian. Clapping a hand to her shoulder and pulling her into a strange, one-armed side-hug and bowing his head towards hers, (to focus his vision and his antennae, she knew) the aide declared, "You will do _well_ on Andoria, _shevt'ak_."

Before Dagmar could register the term, the aide had already swept out of her office.

Across the hall, a sharp-eyed man deactivated his recorder and slipped away.


	14. Misinformation

**FOURTEEN: Misinformation**

"Ambassador Archer." Thoris greeted the Human who had served to unite the planets in the Coalition. The Human was older than he had been upon their first meeting at the conference which had centered on the possibility of such an alliance; his hair was streaked grey, and the lines on his face were greater in number and more pronounced.

The former Starfleet captain nodded politely, looking as uncomfortable out of uniform as he had when he'd first taken the job as the Terran Ambassador to Andoria. Thoris could respect that –could respect the discomfort of civilian clothes after years of long and loyal service. Now, if only the male were a little less sanctimonious...

"I hear you've promoted Dagmar Gunnarssen to your personal staff, Ambassador." Archer cut to the chase.

It had taken the Human male a long time to learn that Andorians did not care for idle chatter. It was acceptable to greet, to ask if the other was well and if their spouses were well, but –for business- the excessive commentary on aesthetics and unnecessary compliments regarding one's household and one's generosity were... irritating. Those hospitalities were to be _expected, _after all, and unneeded praise made Andorians suspicious.

Thoris nodded, antennae curved slightly in polite interest while his mind looked for connections and loopholes. "I have; she has proven to be a capable translator."

The Terran's expression –such a strange thing, to look at faces and not antennae for emotional cues!- hardened slightly. "With all due respect, Ambassador, she's never even been off-planet. I am not entirely certain that moving her to Andoria is the _best_ option for her."

The way Thoris glanced at his taller aide, who shrugged with his antennae, told Archer that not only the Andorian had expected a conversation along these lines, but was already rather bored with it. "The female may decline to keep her post, if that is your concern. However, I think you'll find that will not be the case."

Archer frowned, considering this. He had heard a little about this Dagmar Gunnarssen, but not much more than the fact that she was brought into the twenty-third century involuntarily and struggled to fit in. It had been the young woman's counsellor, a middle-aged man with a frosty disposition and a good record with Starfleet, who had expressed some concern over the girl leaving Earth; the experience could prove traumatic to her fragile state of mind, apparently. The Terran Ambassador to Andoria expressed those same concerns to Thoris, explaining his concern that an unfortunate incident could potentially damage relations between their planets if nothing else.

The excuse felt cold, even to Archer, but it needed to be said. If Thoris couldn't be swayed to consider Gunnarssen's mental health, then maybe something a little more impersonal was needed.

The aide offered neutrally, "I and a member of our Security Division have also invited Miss Gunnarssen to visit Andoria, regardless of her posting. She has indicated a tentative acceptance."

"She has?" That was news to Archer; the counsellor has said nothing to him about this. "I wasn't told about this."

Thoris flagged down someone behind the Terran man, and suggested, "Why don't we ask her ourselves?"

Turning, Jonathan Archer found himself face to face with the very woman he'd been so concerned about. He was surprised –she was not at all what he had pictured. Where he had expected some meek, mild young woman, easily intimidated and drawn with grief, he found that the counsellor's descriptions and profile couldn't have been further off. She was tall, for one, and for all appearances could have been anyone's unruly young daughter, with the mussed mane of hair and the too-dark makeup. She didn't walk so much as mosey, shoulders set and back straight, and there was a slant to her eyes that gave the Terran Ambassador the immediate impression of a shrewd sort of intelligence.

Or, rather, that would have been the case if she hadn't staggered unsteadily into the Andorian Ambassador's office, face flushed and out of breath, just barely balancing a stack of PADDs and a newspaper in her arms and looking for all the world like a hunted beast.

"I'm so sorry I'm late!" The redhaired woman cried, setting the tower of PADDs down onto a nearby table before doubling over, hands on her thighs to prop her semi-upright , and gulped down air like a drowning man. "I hate" –a gasp for air, and then venom- "_reporters_!"

Archer immediately offered the girl the chair he had occupied not moments before, which the woman accepted gratefully. Keen eyes noted that she still held onto the folded newspaper.

Thoris' antennae reared slightly as he inquired, "_Reporters_? What for?"

"Apparently," Gunnarssen began, seeming to have caught her breath. She fidgeted uncomfortably and, after a long and visible struggle with herself, finished, "I'm having some sort of torrid affair with your aide."

Shral's antennae straightened with alarm while Thoris' went momentarily slack with surprise as the redheaded female tossed the newspaper onto the desk, front cover revealed for all to see. Hesitantly, wondering at the can of worms that had been opened here, Archer picked the paper up and read the article out loud. Gunnarssen cringed as he did.

'OFFICE ROMANCE IN THE EMBASSY: Interstellar Romance or Scandal?' the headlines read, the finer print going on to detail that an anonymous source had delivered a recording of an affectionate conversation between the translator, Dagmar Gunnarssen (also known to the public as the unfortunate victim of a modern mad scientist's dream of Warp 10 technology,) and the Andorian Ambassador's right-hand man, whose name was currently to the reporter.

The story became more and more ludicrous as speculations of late night trysts based upon sightings of both Dagmar and several Andorians, including the aide, were listed. Worse, there were sightings of the woman entering the Andorian compound with both the aide and another unknown Andorian male, only to make a highly suspicious departure early in the morning! The reporter speculated on the likelihood of such a romance lasting, given the hypersensitivity towards relations –political or otherwise- with aliens after the Xindi attack as well as conflicts with Terra Prime. Furthermore, was it possible that the young translator had gotten her much sought-after job _because_ of this affair? The implications were gruesome at best, the report finally finished.

"I have _never_ been so completely humiliated." Dagmar confessed with a pained expression before shielding the upper half of her flaming face with her hand –a gesture Thoris had learned meant shame or vexation. This time, he ascertained that the gesture meant the former of the two.

Ambassador Archer grimaced and awkwardly pat the female on the shoulder. Dagmar made a noise of complete and utter misery and buried her face in her hands. That she wasn't crying was a miracle, as far as the Terran man was concerned; give him Romulan conspiracies and near-death experiences any day –just not a hysterical girl!

To his aide, the Andorian demanded, "Is any of this true?"

Shral shook his head, antennae reared backwards –dangerously so- and fists clenched. "_Absolutely_ untrue."

Archer shifted, at once alarmed and extremely uncomfortable with turn of events. The reporter was right about one thing –Humans were still very panicky about aliens, despite politicians trying to say otherwise. If people reacted as badly to the news as he feared... maybe shipping Gunnarssen off to Andoria was a good idea after all.

Out loud, he put forward, "I'll have my people deal with this. That article alone contains a dozen counts of libel and defamation of character, if nothing else."

Ambassador Thoris seemed to have the same thoughts as Archer on the matter of Dagmar's change of residence and, getting the distressed woman's attention with a none-too-subtle cough, he asked with surprising care, "Perhaps now is the time to ask if you are prepared to move to Andoria upon the conclusion of these talks?"

Dagmar was too ashamed and mortified to make eye contact for long –this, the Andorians forgave, despite the inadvertent rudeness- and mumbled (_pleaded_) only, "Can we go _now_?"

Thoris signalled for Shral and murmured something in a dialect the UT didn't know. Shral responded in kind and Archer fought not to make a rude comment about speaking in other languages in front of people who didn't understand. Shral nodded curtly, executed a bow from the shoulders, and left the room without another word, antennae nearly flat against his skull and eyes flinty and cold.

To the lone Terran male in the room, the Andorian Ambassador revealed, "Shral will arrange an escort for Miss Gunnarssen; we will move her temporarily into the Andorian compound."

Counter-intuitive, Archer thought. The redheaded woman didn't respond to this news, he noted. Then again, being what she was, the translator had probably understood most of that exchange between the Ambassador and his aide. "_Somehow_, I don't think moving her closer into the place where all of these alleged encounters took place will help, Ambassador."

The Ambassador stood then, saying nothing in response and watching silently as Shral returned with two Andorians wearing the dark uniform of the Andorian Imperial Guard. One of them –a lieutenant, Archer indentified after peering at the uniform for a long moment- stepped forwards and murmured something into Gunnarssen's ear, placing a blue hand on her shoulder. The gesture made Jonathan nervous in that it could easily have been misconstrued by anyone who didn't understand the Andorians' lack of a concept of personal space.

Whatever the lieutenant said, Dagmar released a shaky breath and stood, bowing with averted eyes to the Ambassador, and then to Shral, and offering her own planet's Ambassador little more than a distracted nod before allowing the lieutenant and the other security officer to lead her away.

"Lieutenant Thelen is a friend of Miss Gunnarssen," Thoris explained after the trio had left. The aide returned to his post, behind and a little to the left of the Ambassador, and if he was any calmer for leaving the room, if was only fractionally. "Indeed, it seems most of my staff and security escort know her to some degree or another."

Jonathan nodded, revealing, "Her counsellor told me that Miss Gunnarssen finds it easier to relate to alien cultures than it is to relate to other Humans at this stage."

Shral's antennae lashed slightly in confusion but said nothing. If Archer hadn't been paying attention, he might have missed it.

"Given the incident we witnessed earlier this month," Thoris's voice was as cold as the planet he came from. "This is not surprising."

Archer grimaced, internally. News of the confrontation with Randal Fox had spread quickly, and it had mortified Earth's government officials. Fox was currently being investigated, but so far nothing had come up.

As it was, the Terran Ambassador rescinded his earlier comments about travelling being a potentially negative experience for Gunnarssen.

"Good," Thoris nodded. "Because we would have taken her with us regardless of your _opinion_."

At Archer's startled expression, the Andorian continued tersely, "An attack on a member of my personal staff is an attack on _myself_, Ambassador, and an affront against Andoria. _You_ will deal with this reporter _and_ you will salvage this situation, or there will be consequences!"

It was with grit teeth that Jonathan Archer agreed to do his best and turned on the heel of his boot to stalk out of the Embassy. Tolerating the Ambassador's arrogance as a sign of respect had never been an easy task for him –especially after Trip's death.

If he hadn't helped Shran...

It was a bitter, angry thought, one that festered slowly underneath a diplomatic facade. It was just as well that he hadn't run into the Andorian commander; Jonathan didn't want to know what he'd do if he did.

Whatever the case, Shran had had the good sense to stay out of contact, and Archer preferred it that way.


	15. Snake in the Grass

**FIFTEEN: Snake In The Grass**

"_In other news, an article published by a small-time newspaper is causing quite a stir! Allegations of an interspecies romance within the very Embassy that's currently housing several trade talks have many up in arms._"

God only knew why she hadn't turned the console off yet. Maybe it was some masochistic aspect of her personality coming to light at long last. Or, maybe, it was just her morbid curiosity wondering what the damage was. Whatever the case, she listened to the newscast, silent as the grave, from her seat on a nearby bench in the common area of the Andorian compound. She had buried her face in her hands early on, a combination of humiliation and the idle fantasy that maybe, if she couldn't see other people, just maybe they couldn't see her either.

Stupid, but it made her feel better –if only momentarily.

_"-A number of Terra Prime advocates claim that Miss Gunnarssen is an extremely negative influence on traditional Human families, while more liberal groups are praising the young woman for her positive attitude towards furthering Human relations with our interstellar allies."_

Dagmar groaned from behind her hands. This was a nightmare. A complete and total nightmare. All those years back in the twenty-first century when random celebrities had been victimized by similar stories, and she hadn't been even remotely sympathetic... Clearly, karma had returned the favour with a vengeance.

_"The Andorian Ambassador made a rare appearance at the press conference hosted by our government today, but declined to comment-"_

Someone slay her. It would be kinder.

"_-Jonathan Archer, a celebrated Starfleet officer and Earth's Ambassador to Andoria, stated that the article was not only completely false, but would be used as evidence against the reporter in an up-coming court case-"_

Maybe she could find a rock to hide under until people forgot her name? Or maybe she could jump onto the first transport leaving Earth and settle onto whatever planet she liked? She could move to Vulcan and make a living as an interpretive dancer!

...Or perhaps not.

"_-This just in, ladies and gentlemen! The reporter responsible for the allegedly slanderous article has been identified; William Kennings, an employee of _The San Francisco Daily_, has been taken into custody by police on charges of libel and defamation of character. The court date has not yet been set._"

A hand settled on her shoulder and Dagmar knew without looking that it was Thelen.

"Don't worry so much," The lieutenant said in what was probably supposed to be a heartening sort of tone. "Once we return to Andoria, people will forget about this."

Oh, god, she wished. But people _never_ forgot about these scandals –not really. The hype would die down after awhile, yes, but it would never really go away. As it was, though, Dagmar was afraid to set foot outside the compound, lest she be lynched by some of the angrier citizens of Earth.

And it wasn't even _deserved_! That was the worst part of it all, after the public humiliation. Nothing had happened between her and Shral! Nothing had _ever_ happened! She didn't even _have_ a love-life, for god's sake! The most affectionate that he'd ever been was when he'd called her the equivalent to a tasty pastry thingy –and she'd looked that up! It was an endearment between _parents and children_!

Evidently her silence and lack of response to... pretty much everything beyond her own cocoon of misery disturbed Thelen. He shook her shoulder a bit. "Dagmar? Are you well?"

Was she _well_? Was her serious? What kind of a question was that!

"I want," Dagmar forced out from between grit teeth. "To crawl under a rock and _die_."

The bench dipped slightly as Thelen sat beside her, his shoulder brushing against hers, and the security officer offered lightly, "Lucky for you, Andoria has a number of deep and isolated ice caves. Most of them are abandoned, too –nobody's been there in years! You could _accidentally_ get lost... I hear hypothermia is a slow but _relatively_ painless process for Humans."

Okay, fair enough. Maybe she was taking it a bit too far with the 'dying of shame' thing. Reluctantly she muttered, "Maybe I'll just become a hermit and never speak to anyone ever again..."

"Once again," Thelen cheerfully repeated his offer. "Andoria has a number of deep and isolated ice caves-"

"Maybe I'll just never speak to _you_ again!"

"How fortunate! With Andoria's vast number of deep and isolate ice caves –which, you might like to know, can stretch for several of your Terran miles- you could set yourself up on the far edges of one of our cities and wander for days without ever laying eyes on me again!"

Dagmar raised her head from her hands long enough to shoot the Andorian a particularly withering and exasperated glare. The lieutenant was not particularly intimidated, his antennae bowed towards each other and his face pulled into that characteristically thin smile (and vaguely strained; just how difficult was it for an Andorian to imitate a smile?)

Annoyed, Dagmar asked caustically, "Okay, so what if I said I was planning on moving to Vulcan and making a living as a pole-dancer?"

Thelen didn't even blink as he countered, with a perfect deadpan expression, "You'd pass out from heat stroke before you accomplished much of anything. Don't even _try_ to pretend otherwise."

Oh, _ouch_. Okay, yes, it was probably true, but _ouch_.

Bit frosty there.

"Now, Andoria has considerably cooler temperatures and would, in fact, encourage you to remain active to stay warm. Between that and the novelty of this 'pole-dancing' you're proposing, I predict great success and-"

"Okay! Okay! I get the point. Andoria is awesome." Dagmar caved in wearily. Thelen could probably keep arguing in that vein all day, but Dagmar was _tired_. Dropping her head back into her hands with a sigh, she added, "I'm just tired of being harassed by my own people for stuff that isn't even _true_."

Thelen bumped his shoulder against hers –a wordless 'buck-up, kiddo' sort of gesture- and suggested, "At least they didn't make up anything about you and the Tellerite Ambassador's aide."

"That's because no one would _ever_ believe it." Dagmar countered from behind her hands, smiling despite herself.

The sooner she left for Andoria, the better. Whatever her reservations were before, they were nothing compared to the prospect of staying on Earth.

* * *

><p>"Doctor Shore," Jonathan Archer greeted the thin, sharp-eyed man neutrally. The psychologist had asked –no, <em>demanded<em>- to speak with him immediately following the press conference, and something about the man's manner set off at least a dozen red flags. He hadn't spend years serving in Starfleet –exploring, fighting, negotiating- without learning to read people at least a little.

"Ambassador, I hope you were successful-"

Archer held up a hand, interrupting the man. "I spoke with the Andorian Ambassador –and met Miss Gunnarssen while I was in the Embassy. Miss Gunnarssen is leaving with the Andorian delegation once the treaty is finalized. Quite frankly, after today I don't think she can leave Earth fast enough."

The psychologist adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat –an odd thing to do; a nervous tick, perhaps?- before speaking, "I was afraid of that. This unfortunate incident with the media has only further alienated Miss Gunnarssen from Terran society, but I cannot stress _enough_ how detrimental to her psychological well-being leaving Earth could be."

Archer frowned and said, "Seems to me like _staying_ is more detrimental than leaving at this point, doctor."

"Yes," Dr. Shore agreed. "But only _temporarily_! I'm concerned that she could develop an aversion to her own species through avoidance responses. Think –she could easily lose her cultural identity, her sense of belonging, and her sense of purpose as a functional and productive member of our society!"

Not that their society was letting her have much of any of those, Archer thought wryly to himself. He'd done a little research –had looked up old newcasts and reports- and had come to the conclusion that if _anyone_ was perfectly suited to space travel and long periods of time spent away from their home planet, it was the twenty-first century woman. Just walking down the streets she used to live on, back in her time, must have been like visiting an alien planet!

"She fits in well enough with the Andorians."

Dr. Shore's eyes narrowed and Jonathan noticed a few telling facial tics. Micro-expressions, they were called –like that upwards twitch of his upper lip, signifying contempt, or the way Jonathan could see the muscles of Shore's jaw working furiously beneath thin skin. "With all due respect, _Ambassador_, Dagmar Gunnarssen is _not_ an Andorian! She's a living remnant of ancient Human civilization –and look what's been done to her! I've told Starfleet and the Academy a thousand times –she should have been segregated from any alien influence. If she had been forced to interact with Humans _only_, she might not have-"

The doctor's face was flush with angry, spittle flying as his rant grew in volume and vehemence. The carrying –neurotically- arranged hair was out of place, dislodged by the almost violent gestures that emphasized his words; gone was the cool, composed psychologist from earlier that morning.

At least another two dozen red flags appeared in the Terran Ambassador's mind as he listened to the tirade with rapidly thinning patience. The name 'Terra Prime' came to mind a few times, and Archer idly wondered if the doctor was a member. He made a mental note to check and surreptitiously alerted security; officers, he reminded himself, were not supposed to pick fights with civilians –diplomats even less so.

It was an effort –a real and concentrated effort- to reign in his own contempt, and a sudden nostalgia for the days when he was allowed to carry a phase pistol hit him like an errant wave. Even as two bulky security officers removed the doctor –not quite forcibly, but almost- Archer couldn't quite suppress the half-instinctive twitch of his hand towards the empty space were a holster should have been.

Silently, he activated the nearest console and punched in an enquiry regarding Dr. Shore's records and known affiliations.


	16. A Bonding Moment

**SIXTEEN: A Bonding Moment**

"_Shevt'ak_?"

Dagmar nearly cringed. For all that the little pastry was rapidly becoming her favourite food, she would probably forever associate the name and endearment with bad press, semi-homicidal xenophobes, and the omnipresent feeling of desperately wanting to crawl under the table and hide for a bit.

Sadly, she didn't think Thoris would let her get away with that last bit –not at a formal dinner, at least.

"If I keep eating those, I'll turn into one!" Dagmar joked, only to grimace after a moment and add, "Also, I'm developing an aversion to the name."

Thelen gave an antennae-shrug and ate the proffered pastry himself. The pair of them were standing off to the side of the large ballroom, observing the various diplomats and aides and generally staying out of the way. The trade talks were, at long last, over and done with and, to celebrate, a dinner party had been thrown together at the last minute by the Terran side of things. Unlike the college dinner parties that Dagmar knew so well from her time, this was a rather more sophisticated affair. It would be a black-tie affair, almost –if Tellerites, Vulcans, and Andorians could ever be persuades to wear tuxedos.

Actually, the Andorians could probably pull that off...

If Dagmar's mind lingered on that image a little too long, well, fortunately there were no telepaths in the room. And, no, touch-telepaths didn't count.

Overall, the atmosphere was quite pleasant. The music was of the quiet and easy going classical sort –not enough to invite dancing, which would horrify the Vulcans, but not too easy-going either, lest the Tellerites grow bored- and the food was good. The lighting was fractionally too dim for Dagmar's tastes and after nearly a week and a half in the Andorian compound, it was almost certainly too warm, but she understood that everything had been compromised just so for all of the guests involved.

...Which, of course, was a nice way of saying that no one was comfortable and everyone could find common ground in commiserating about it. Clever, really.

"You there! Hideous female! What a terrible dress! Did you make it yourself?"

Oh, look –Ambassador Gral had come over to say hi. How nice of him.

Thelen snorted, directing his antennae at the gruff Tellerite politely but otherwise remaining carefully neutral. Dagmar, on the other hand, had a little trouble forcing a friendly smile onto her face. It wasn't that she didn't understand that the Ambassador was, in fact, being very polite –bordering on complimentary, even- but she hated dresses and was in fact rather self-conscious about wearing one.

Should have gone with a pant-suit, she lamented inwardly as she answered the greeting out loud. "Good evening to you, too, you ungainly short-bus!"

Someone nearby gasped. Probably a newbie. The new kids in the Embassy always flipped out when someone insulted a Tellerite. Dagmar would know –she'd been one of them!

Gral gave her a look that was half disappointment and half scorn, but the effect was lost when he had to lean backwards and crane his neck to glare at her. "Surely even _your_ slow mind can come up with something a little more scathing! I've heard better insults from drooling half-wits!"

Dagmar nodded in acknowledgement of her failing –a pattern that had developed between her and the Tellerites- and offered, "I'm sorry –may I try again?"

"See that you do!"

If you don't have something to complain about, insult them, the Canadian reminded herself before taking a breath and starting her pseudo-angry litany. "Your voice is beyond obnoxious, I hate your beard, you reek of the single most revolting set of pheromones I have _ever_ had the misfortune of coming across, your robes are scruffy _at best_, and –as if all that wasn't enough- your snout terrifies and bewilders me!"

A hush fell over the nearby delegates –not over the entire room, mind, but definitely those close enough to hear the exchange, give or take a Vulcan. The gasping newbie –whom Dagmar could see beyond the small cluster of Vulcans to her immediate right, dropped his fork. Dagmar could have sworn one of the Vulcans twitched at the sudden clattering noise.

Cautiously, wondering why they'd gone quiet (wasn't it common knowledge that Tellerites expected insults as greetings?), Dagmar frowned and asked the Ambassador uncertainly, "Too much?"

Behind her –and she must have been hearing things, because it just wasn't possible- she heard a quiet, rasping sort of chuckle. The only person behind her was Thelen, though, and Andorians just _didn't_ laugh.

Definitely had to be imagining it.

Suddenly, Ambassador Gral grinned a snarling grin, and announced a toast to the first, faint ray of hope for the future sophistication of the Human race. He raised his glass of... some sort of boggy looking alcohol with such enthusiasm that he nearly drenched Dagmar in it as he waddled by.

Though the eyebrow-wiggle that the Tellerite aide was giving her was a little odd... Still, by the time the Tellerite had waddled and pushed and shoved his way into the center of the room to regale Ambassador Archer with various tales of... something Dagmar really didn't care about, actually. She stopped listening after the initial greeting.

Still, the redhead had to wonder about the staring and all that. That had been a little weird, given that she was just greeting the male. None-too-subtly leaning back towards Thelen, she asked over her shoulder, "What did I say?"

To her surprise it wasn't Thelen's soft voice that answered, but Shral's lower baritone as a hand settled on her bare shoulder. She jumped, and half turned to see that Thelen had disappeared from their secluded little corner to chat up a Denobulan woman. "You were fine until you mentioned pheromones."

"Sorry?" What? Gral and the other Tellerites smelled weird. It was a known fact amongst the translators.

"You very nearly propositioned the Ambassador."

And there went her appetite for the evening! Dagmar made a face. Small wonder people had stared. _Gross_.

Not that she didn't respect Ambassador Gral. She did. It was just... that was a mental image that didn't bear contemplating.

"Fortunately, you averted any potential awkwardness with the snout comment." Shral continued smoothly, and Dagmar was a little uncomfortable with how close the aide was standing. Lack of a concept of personal space or not, she though the man might have shown a little more discretion, given the nightmare that was the latest media report.

Apparently, according to an anonymous but _reliable_ source, she was fleeing to Andoria to bear her mysterious Andorian lover's litter away from prying eyes.

That's right. Not _children_. Not _offspring_. Litter. Like a bloody cat.

Moreover, whoever this source was obviously had no grasp of the Andorian sense of privacy; or, rather, the absence thereof. They didn't have doors unless it was necessary for security, they didn't have nudity taboos, they slept and ate communally, and their attitude towards sex was that it was "playing" (with an _everything goes_ mentality, to boot) until the adults were married. Tack on the favourite Andorian past-time of trying to guess other people's secrets and... the holes in the informant's logic were obvious.

Oh, sure, a degree of personal privacy was protected –guarded jealously, even- but not in the usual Human sense of it. Andorians, much like the ancient Japanese, lived in such close quarters that real separation wasn't possible. To deal with the awkward aspects of that, they simply "didn't see" anything that was too personal. They averted their eyes and went about their business like whatever it was just wasn't happening.

Still, Andoria was not exactly the place to go when fleeing from prying eyes.

Regardless of the increasing ridiculousness of the reports, Dagmar still found them extremely distressing. So, naturally, standing in a lonely little corner near the punch-bowl with the person she was supposedly having some sort of affair with was not high on Dagmar's list of things to do before leaving Earth. Standing with Shral in a lonely corner with his hand on her shoulder and murmuring into her ear, even less so. If the dinner had been open to some of the media, the Canadian might have made good on her threats to become a hermit and never speak to anyone again.

Stepping away from the man and turning to face him properly, the redheaded woman helped herself to a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. The waiter didn't appear to notice, striding off to a table of Denobulans from across the room. Dagmar wasn't entirely sure what the Denobulans had been negotiating during the trade talks –her grasp of their language was not as fluent as it could have been, so she hadn't been much involved with those translations- but their Ambassador seemed pleased with the results in any case.

Realizing that she'd nearly slipped off into a distracted daze, Dagmar shook herself and looked back at Shral. He, like Thelen and the other Andorians in Thoris' retinue, was in what she could only describe as formal leathers. Where the usual uniform of the Imperial Guard was predominantly dark brown or dark green leather, interspersed with a heavy, woven fabric of the same colour, the dress uniform had an off-white colour scheme and seemed to be a little less flexible than the softer standard leathers. On Thelen the dress uniform looked vaguely uncomfortable, but on Shral it seemed almost completely natural.

Suddenly, but not for the first time that evening, Dagmar felt a little underdressed in her cocktail dress. Really, _really_ should have gone for the pant-suit, the Canadian lamented once again with chagrin.

"I do not completely understand the necessity of this event." The Andorian aide revealed suddenly. He gestured to the crowd of predominantly Human people, too caught up in their chatter and laughter to pay much mind to the aide and translator. The music changed as he spoke, the musicians apparently growing bored with their script and picking up to something a little more festive; sleepy classical notes morphed into bubbly jazz. A few pairs of Humans broke off from the crowd to dance, while the Vulcans looked on in typical micro-disdain and the Tellerites helped themselves to the booze. The Andorians appeared puzzled by the display, and Dagmar could see many sets of antennae wiggling in confusion above the crowd.

"What is the purpose of this?" Shral wanted to know. Dagmar blinked in surprise. Evidently, Andorians didn't dance for fun.

...Actually, that made sense. They were a very no-nonsense people, on the whole. Frivolity didn't work well with living in an extreme environment like Andoria, after all.

"Dancing," Dagmar began carefully, wondering just how to cast her compatriots' behaviour as another handful of Humans joined the dancing couples. After a moment, she decided to leave the casting and such to the diplomats; as a translator, her integrity came from her blunt honesty and neutrality. "Has many purposes. For example, in earlier times when men and women were very much segregated from each other, dancing was one way of meeting and attracting potential husbands and wives without breaching the rules of propriety. Before that, dancing was one of a number of ways to display speed, grace, and strength amongst warriors in some cultures."

Shral processed this, keen green eyes observing the dancers and the crowd with interest. "Your males and females are no longer separated. What purpose does this display serve _now_?"

Warming up to the topic, Dagmar answered, "It encourages bonding between friends, spouses, or potential spouses. Sometimes even complete strangers, too. It is a way to interact with someone in a way that is enjoyable without being unnecessarily or uncomfortably intimate. On Earth, it's also considered an art form –a way of expressing oneself. The older and more experienced you are with dancing –take that gentleman over there with the grey hair- the more fluid and graceful you are; I'd wager he's trained in the classical ballroom dances."

Sometime during her explanation, Thoris has sidled over, looking completely baffled as Ambassador Archer was cajoled into dancing as well. He, like his fellow Andorians, was in formal leathers as well, with the distinguishing addition of the silvery-white robes made from Andorian silk which denoted his rank and office. Further into the ballroom, the Vulcans were stoically trying not to look too scandalized, but by this point the Tellerites had given up and joined in... Though Dagmar was not so certain that their waddling gait was suited to swing or any sort of Human dance.

"_Thiptho lapth_." She and Shral greeted, almost in-sync, bowing politely from the shoulders. To her surprise, the Ambassador returned the bow –albiet curtly, as was befitting of a superior to a subordinate.

"Since you are in an explanatory mood, Miss Gunnarssen, perhaps you will explain to me why one of the Human aides saw fit to breach ranks and invite her superior to engage in such frivolity?"

The question wasn't particularly angry in tone or phrasing, but she could see how Thoris might be offended. Andorians had a very strict structure to their society, and the idea of a subordinate engaging a superior in such an informal way made them... _uncomfortable_ -not quite offended, but definitely thinking about it.

Dagmar smiled, despite the reproachful look she received for it, and answered cheerfully, "That's the great part about dancing –anyone can dance with anyone! Under traditional etiquette, I could dance with _you_, Ambassador –if you asked and if I wanted to."

Thoris looked appalled by the very notion.

_Ouch_.

There was a moment of hilarity on the dance floor as a female Tellerite attempted to engage a particularly tall Human aide for a dance, and the pair ended up tripping over themselves and careened into a cluster of Denobulans. Dagmar winced in sympathy. Dance partners that were too short or too tall could cause all manner of logistical issues.

The musicians were struggling to keep playing in the wake of that particular mess, but the saxophone player started to laugh and had to be rushed off stage. The man's replacement wasn't too much more composed and fled not long after sitting down as the pair made second, chaotic attempt at dancing and nearly took out a table. Dagmar suspected one or both of the dancers were a bit tipsy, by their complete lack of coordination. Hopefully, nothing would end in disaster and embarrassment for either species' delegates.

Thoris was saying something and Dagmar snapped to attention. "—must ask?"

"Sorry?" Oops.

An impressive frown was bestowed upon her for that particular lapse in attentiveness. "I said, the males must ask? Not the females?"

Ah. That's right. Andorian females were the aggressive ones. Well, technically, _all_ Andorians were aggressive in some way or another, but apparently their woman could be particularly violent... when such a thing was permitted. For all that Andorians were a paranoid and aggressive species, they had remarkable self-discipline; when they needed to vent, they did so in short and carefully controlled bouts. Thus, there was no such thing as a _somewhat_ angry Andorian –they only had two anger settings: enraged or not at all. The same went for happiness (manic or not) or sadness (inconsolable or not) as well. If they weren't venting, however, most Andorians appeared calm, stoic, and logical -like powder-blue Vulcans.

The contrasts were actually quite fascinating.

Dagmar shook her head and clarified, "Traditionally, the men ask, but there's nothing stopping a woman from asking either."

Thelen had appeared while she had been observing the chuckling saxophone player, antennae wiggling in time with the music. It seemed like an absent-minded gesture –the same way she sometimes found herself tapping her fingers to the beat of a song. In fact, an entire cluster of Andorians had shifted closer to listen in, apparently. It was almost funny, really. Apparently, she was the cultural expert on modern day Humans.

Ironic.

But was dancing really such a novelty to them? Didn't Andorians dance at all –even just for ceremonial stuff?

"Don't Andorians have dances?" She asked, her curious mind latching onto the question. Belatedly, she realized that she'd been holding a flute of champagne for well over fifteen minutes without even drinking from it; it was starting to get warm. She sipped experimentally and grimaced inwardly as she amended her previous thought. The champagne was already lukewarm.

"We have a few," Thelen revealed with a polite bow to Thoris. Dagmar, he greeted by holding up his hand, palm facing outwards. Surprised, the Canadian lifted her own hand and pressed her palm to his. Amongst Andorians, that was almost an affectionate greeting, implying familiarity and a degree of fondness. "But they are reserved for ceremonial or festive occasions only."

That explained why the Andorians were stumped, then.

Well, at least the Tellerites were enjoying themselves, the Canadian thought wryly. That was something.


	17. Goodbye, Mister Chips

**SEVENTEEN: Goodbye, Mister Chips**

It had taken some doing –dodging her escort and the few die-hard reporters lurking outside of the compound being the most difficult, with creeping about the city streets she used to walk without a care coming in as a close second- but Dagmar couldn't have left Earth without taking care of this one last thing. Her possessions, such as they were, were packed and ready to go, and she'd settled her remaining affairs that morning. She'd even found time to say goodbye to Zepht, if over a comm. system –who, for the record, had had the good sense to disbelieve the media frenzy but noted that even if it _were_ true, he saw nothing wrong with the relationship.

Dagmar could have kissed him.

But there was just one last thing –something that had to be done in person before she hopped onto that transport.

Bright, intelligent green eyes stared at her, wide and curious, fringed with ginger. A paw, white-toes declawed with some advanced and painless technique of this new age, swatted ineffectually at her nose. Dagmar snorted, and received another soft swat for it.

"Goodbye, Mister Fluffles."

The other cats, all greys and tawny browns, milled about the pub, the establishment itself a long seven hours from opening. They were all good cats, Dagmar thought fondly, even if she wasn't especially wild about cats. But her favourite was the ginger of the lot –the quiet, fuzzy orange-and-white one that hung compliantly from her grasp and batted at her nose with alternating paws.

Bemused, Dagmar wondered just what the cat's issue with her nose was.

Grigor was there, too, more sombre and sober than she had ever seen the Czech as he laid out surprisingly delicate dishes of cream and kibble for his feline companions.

"Best put Fluffles down, eh?" Grigor said suddenly, and the harsh, blunt lines of his face seemed drawn and sad. "The others –they bully him and do not share."

For the life of her, Dagmar didn't know why she was so sad about it, but it was only very reluctantly that she set the ginger cat down onto the old hardwood floor and let Fluffles go about his business. She looked around the pub, with its antique but painstakingly cared for wood furnishings, its vintage posters (someone of which she remembered from her childhood) and its musty, vintage atmosphere. She imagined it as it must have been, years ago –the air thick with cigarette smoke and perchance the faint warbling voice of Edith Piaf, the lights yellow and dim and almost ineffectual against the dark and the dust and the smoke. She imagined pinstriped suits and fedoras, old-school and in their prime.

"I'm really going to miss this place." She said out loud. Her voice bounced –not quite an echo- in the wide and open room, over the mewling and the meows of the cats, over the shuffling and clinking of Grigor checking his inventory.

And she would. She had fond memories of the place; her first encounter with Grigor, the times she stuck around well into the early hours of the morning helping the burly Czech sort out his inventory and place orders for what he needed, the half-serious scoffs and snorts she'd earned for suggesting he learn to make girly drinks and broaden his horizons a bit, the trial that had been the naming of the cats...

She probably wasn't going to find a place like Grigor's pub on Andoria. Or someone like Grigor, with his gruff manners and his cats and his teddy-bear soft disposition.

Andorians didn't come in Hulk-sized packages with warm-fuzzy feelings and sympathetic natures.

"Da," Grigor grumbled from behind the counter. "And the cats."

A smile, if watery. "_And_ the cats. Especially Mister Fluffles." She frowned then, and added, "And don't let his brothers and sisters bully him because he's ginger and little, okay?"

Grigor ducked his head and smiled a tiny, wry smile that she probably wasn't supposed to see. Dagmar pretended not to notice, because Grigor would never admit to it, to being the big softy that he was, and she would never ask anyway. Hesitantly, he reached out across the counter-top with one massive, calloused hand and pat her on the head. Just once, lightly.

"I'll come back." She said, and the Canadian wasn't entirely sure who she was reassuring.

* * *

><p>"Ready to go?" Thelen asked her, after her escort had caught up to her, after she had explained herself awkwardly and apologetically. Sort of. She hadn't said she'd run off to say goodbye to a cat, per se –more that she'd run off to say good bye to one of her four friends on the planet.<p>

Five, if you counted the cat.

_Jesus_. How sad was that? An entire planet of people, and the only ones she was actually upset about leaving were an old man and a ginger cat.

Now, moving with the Andorian delegation onto the shuttle that would take them up to the Andorian transport ship (armed, because Andorians apparently didn't believe in unarmed transport), Dagmar honestly didn't know how to answer that question. _Was_ she ready to go? Ready to get away from the rabid press and the rumours, threats and accusations? Well, yes for the latter. The redhead couldn't get away from those fast enough –but was she really ready to leave Earth? For a year –for maybe more than a year?

Well, it was too late for cold feet now, Dagmar thought wryly as she found a seat with Shral, Ambassador Thoris, and Thelen (who, she learned rather belatedly, was his acting Chief of Security –showed how much she paid attention, huh?- as the former officer had been injured on an assignment) She and the Thelen sat side by side and the Ambassador and his aide opposite of them in a typical four-person arrangement. The surrounding seats were filled up by the remaining aides and security officers.

The seating arrangement was a bit odd, from a Human perspective, but from an Andorian's it made perfect sense. The entire species had a quad-mentality, to the point where they married in groups of four –which, contrary to some rather odd rumours, had nothing to do with their biology. It was a defensive measure against children growing up without parents (something that was extremely likely, given the harsh environment Andorians lived in.) Thus, sitting in a four-person arrangement, with pairs of seat facing each other, was perfectly normal. In fact, Andorians viewed the idea of sitting in rows to be impersonal and cold.

Someone must have altered the shuttle to cater to the Andorian passengers for this particular trip. The redheaded woman was almost certain that no other Human transport was configured that way.

"I took the liberty of procuring Andorian-made clothes for you." Thelen revealed as the shuttle took off. It was odd, the initial turbulence smoothing out into an all but indiscernible vibration. She was used to the bump and wobbly of airplanes from her time, and found the lack of motion almost disturbing.

Dagmar blinked. "...Why?"

"At last, something our translator _doesn't_ know!" Thoris voiced with smiling eyes under the arch of his bowed antennae. Beside him, Shral offered a thin smile that revealed blue gums and sharp teeth.

Shral leaned forwards, antennae directed at her in that odd, unsettling manner that Dagmar always tried to ignore. "Andorian clothing had temperature regulators woven into the fabric; given the sensitivity of your internal systems to extreme temperatures, it seemed prudent."

"I did attempt to keep your preferences in mind," Thelen assured her with uncanny timing; she was having visions of either swimming in fabric or not having nearly enough of it. "But you will be able to choose something more to your liking later."

"Thank you, Thelen." The twenty-first century Canadian was surprised by the gesture, but it was a very logical thing to do –and for all their grievances and resentments, Andorians and Vulcans valued logic and reason equally. Then, smiling and genuinely meaning it, she added, "I'm sure whatever you picked will be fine."


	18. Reactive

**EIGHTEEN: Reactive**

The trip to Andoria was a long one –about a week- and Dagmar spent most of it prepping herself and growing accustomed to Andorian customs. She slept and ate communally with the crew, conversed with them in Andorii and whatever other dialects she knew (without the use of a Universal Translator), and learned how to identify members of different _keths_ as well as how to show the varying degrees of respect each clan member warranted.

That last part caused a bit of a complication –mostly because Dagmar wasn't Andorian and thus didn't have a specific Clan that she belonged to; different Clans had different relations to one another, she'd learned. At length and after much debate, it has been decided that she would represent her own _keth_.

All by herself.

The entire point of a Clan was to have allies, blood-relations and so on, to come to one's aid during a conflict. If an Andorian didn't have a _keth_, he or she went and joined the nearest friendly one, usually. Some clans numbered in the thousands, but not hers. She had a grand total of one member in the Gunnarseen _keth_: herself. Dagmar was apparently the only one who thought that might be a bad idea, but she didn't voice her opinion on the matter. Truthfully, she couldn't –not with impunity. She had to adhere to Andorian rules now, and since the decision had been made by those who outranked her (meaning Ambassador Thoris and his upper-level staff) she had to accept it gracefully and move on.

It was hard, suddenly not having as much say in her life as she was used to, but Dagmar had known that there would be some changes that came with the move to Andoria.

So, the Canadian spent her time learning from the other Andorians about the finer points etiquette. As her only clansmen –which has the surprising quirk of also making herself her own clan leader (a prestigious position in and of itself)- she wasn't required to acknowledge lesser clan members immediately or with anything more than a shallow bow from the shoulders. Not that she _had_ any lesser clan members, but the information might come in handy, she supposed.

Imperial Guardsmen at the rank of commander or above, as well as councilmen and high-ranking politicians such as Thoris, however, were above her station and she would await their acknowledgement and commands as was proper. Those in between, such as other clan leaders and so on, were to be greeted as equals and according to a rigorous set of rules put in place to prevent any possibility of feuding between _keths_.

She was also told that, should she sufficiently offend someone or disgrace her Clan, it would be expected of her to fight under the code of _ushaan _to redeem herself, or she could opt to commit ritual suicide.

It was like jumping into a time machine and finding herself surrounded by blue, Feudal-era samurai when she'd expected to be somewhere else entirely.

That fact that she was Human and had different customs was now irrelevant, the twenty-first century woman had realized early one. If she messed up from this point onwards, she would have to deal with it as an Andorian would.

Needless to say, Dagmar planned on being _painfully_ polite to everyone and maybe not setting foot outside of her quarters very often.

Speaking of... Dagmar had no idea where she'd be staying. Not with Shral or Thelen or any of the other Andorians she knew, at least. They were all from different _keths_ and had their own Lodges to go to. It was entirely possible that Thelen's joke of her setting herself up on the outskirts of one of the major cities and never seeing any of them again might come true after all.

The thought made her feel... vulnerable. Sad, even.

The redheaded woman sighed as she adjusted the high-collared white outer coat of the clothing Thelen had procured. He'd been thorough, the Chief of Security –had probably read up on Humans and their reaction to prolonged exposure to extreme temperatures- and had ensured that neither her hands nor her face were neglected in the ensemble; gloves and a detachable fur-lined hood were included. The temperature regulators that Shral had spoken of were impossible to find, as well, and that suited Dagmar just fine.

Though quite why she had to be the only one wearing completely white when everyone else was wearing black or dark, murky colours was beyond her. It wasn't as if she wouldn't stand out on her own, after all.

The twenty-first century woman would probably be the first "pink-skin" to every live on Andoria, even for a short time, after all.

The outfit fit her well enough, and it was considerably warmer than her Terran clothing. The texture was... odd, though. Andorian leather wasn't like Terran leather; it had a funny texture that she couldn't quite place. Not an unpleasant one, but something that was decidedly different.

"Everything fits, then?" A soft baritone asked from behind her. Dagmar jumped and whirled around to find Shral standing in the doorway. Damn Andorians and their lack of doors.

Not that she'd stripped and changed in the doorway, exactly –she'd moved off the side so that she wasn't easily seen from the corridor. Still, though. She needed _doors_, damn it.

With narrowed blue eyes, the Terran woman accused, "And just how long have you been standing there?"

Shral shrugged, antennae curved in a shallow arch towards each other, and said, "Ten minutes. I came to ask if you were hungry, but you were busy."

Yes –busy _changing_. Had he honestly just stood there the entire time? More importantly, how had she not noticed him?

Dagmar fought to suppress an angry snarl –and failed. "And it didn't occur to you to maybe _come back later_?"

"No." Shral answered simply, and he seemed puzzled by her reaction. "Is that the correct response for a Human?"

You'd have to be blind not to see where _that_ conversation would go. Shral wasn't Human, after all –and Andorians _did_ have a notorious sort of indifference to personal space and privacy- so how could he have known? And that was fair, she thought, sighing heavily and dropping her shoulders from their tense, angry position. When she'd stayed in the Andorian compound, it had been different –she had been issued quarters separate from everyone else and _had_ had a more Human sense of privacy.

Now, though... everything was different.

Running a hand through her hair, the Canadian shook her head and sighed again. She could practically _see_ the culture shock looming on the horizon, and it was fraying her nerves already.

"Amongst Humans, it's considered _extremely_ rude to observe a person changing without their knowledge." She explained carefully, emphatically. "And I'm sorry, I know Andorian customs are a little different, but I'm probably going to have knee-jerk reactions like that for a while."

Shral inclined his head, antennae in that neutral, politely interested configuration that she was so used to seeing, but what he said next stung. "I thought as much –and you forgot to greet me properly."

The aide looked at her expectantly.

What Dagmar should have done at that point was move immediately to remedy her mistake. That would have satisfied the requirements of Andorian common courtesy and would have allayed any possibility of offence being given or taken.

What she _did_ was burst into tears.


	19. Potential

**NINETEEN: Potential**

"I'm okay," The female reiterated between sniffles, curled around a pillow in the sleeping area and surrounded by Andorians. "I'm sorry. I'm okay."

Ambassador Thoris th'Kor of Andoria was disinclined to believe her. It was not unknown for interstellar travellers to encounter difficulties when experiencing new cultures –even amongst Andorians- but this teary-eyed display, however short-lived, had caught both himself and his aide off guard. Having already been partially integrated into the Andorians compound on Earth, he had expected a little more... resistance to such a thing.

Solicitously, Lt. Thelen knelt to the redheaded Terran's level and offered her another tissue, advising only, "Let the heat drop, Dagmar."

The female was out of sorts enough to need a moment to translate that –what a state!

He was not displeased, precisely, nor was he disappointed. He was merely surprised. Then again, he had been warned that the trip might cause some level of instability in the female, had he not? Ambassador Archer had delivered the warning himself.

But of all the forms that instability could have taken... A sobbing female is not a thing any male of any species wanted to deal with –not any that he had ever encountered in his extensive experience as an Ambassador, at least. But, the Andorian male reasoned, it was not unusual for Andorians to display their emotions similarly. Though Andorians, at least, had the sense to do it in private...

Small mercies, that entire episode had lasted no more than three minutes, and already she was apologizing and pulling herself together.

"-still your friends, Dagmar." Lt. Thelen was telling the female, and there was something about the way the woman nodded and visibly fought not to curl in on herself that reminded Thoris that she was fairly young –if not physically, then in spirit.

Yes, he knew something of the spirit, Human or otherwise. There was a phrase for those like the young translator amongst Andorians, but it rendered awkwardly in her speech –"those with new eyes"- and Thoris was not fond of the butchery the English language inflicted upon his own. More elegantly translated, it meant "one who has not been here before." Humans had a concept of the opposite, which they happened to share with Andorians; old souls. Miss Gunnarssen was a new soul.

It showed.

"This will pass." Shral said knowingly, touching the female's shoulder lightly with his fingertips, as Thoris observed from a few arm-lengths away. The attraction from one to the other was obvious –the aide could not have broadcasted it any more clearly- but whether or not it was returned was... indecipherable. It was entirely possible that the female had no idea what Shral had been stubbornly trying to communicate since she'd first walked into the Embassy.

Any other Andorian would have given up by now, Thoris thought absent-mindedly.

The aide had been the one to summon Lt. Thelen, moments after Miss Gunnarssen's composure fled. For all that the aide had a quick mind –a tactician's mind- and had proven both loyal and indispensible in his service, Shral was not particularly soft-hearted or sensitive by Andorian standards.

And Andorians standards in that respect were _very_ different from Human standards.

"I'm sorry," The female repeated again, without the snuffles this time as she brushed her auburn hair out of her face and uncurled her limbs. "I'm sorry, Shral."

Oh? Perhaps she was not so ignorant after all?

"I didn't mean to freak out on you," Miss Gunnarssen continued with a grimace of visible chagrin and an apologetic brush of her fingers along the back of the aide's hand. Thoris tracked the shiver that followed, from hand to antennae, with knowing eyes and wondered idly if the woman knew what that meant.

Probably not.

It wasn't especially significant, the gesture, but it... _implied_ a few things. Familiarity, for one. Affection, for another –and not the same sort that Lt. Thelen showed her, either, but something one might expect between a courting pair. Especially a courting pair that had already begun the bonding process.

It would be interesting to see how future events unfolded, from a diplomatic perspective. If the Human female could adapt and continued to prove herself as level-headed and useful as he thought, the possibilities for furthering the Earth-Andoria alliance were endless. To have a Human permanently employed within the Andorian government, especially one integrated into their society and able to act as a liaison as well as a translator...

Turning and leaving the female to compose herself, the Ambassador pondered the potential.

As for what his subordinates did in their spare time... that was beneath his concern.


	20. Fold

**TWENTY: Fold**

Two days until Andoria.

What Dagmar would forever refer to as The Crying Incident was all but forgotten after a day or two, at least by her Andorian compatriots. As for herself, the entire thing was nearly as humiliating as the tabloids.

She'd never had culture shock before, the twenty-first century Canadian realized, staring up at the dark ceiling and watching her breath leave her in soft, visible puffs in the low light. It was getting towards the end of the ship's night cycle, and already Andorians were rising from their sleep.

It had been terrible –feeling overwhelmed and trapped for no logical reason- but it had gone as quickly as it had come, like some shadow. From a purely clinical perspective, it was a fascinating process, actually; despite her embarrassment over the incident itself, she felt more relaxed overall and was, in fact, absorbing more about Andorian behaviour and culture than she had before.

The whole thing had been almost... cathartic. Yes, cathartic was the word, and rejuv-

"_Gunnarssen_!" Thoris shouted suddenly, viciously, shattering the silence and the Canadian's reverie.

Several sleeping –rather, formerly sleeping- Andorians grumbled in protest.

With an alarmed shout of her own, Dagmar bolted upright from the mass of pillows and tangle of limbs, badly startled and staring at the Ambassador with wide eyes. His antennae were bowed and the silhouette of his shoulders were shaking as he said in a calm voice that couldn't quite mask the thin, rasping laugh, "..._Predictable_."

And then, turning on the heel of his boot, the Ambassdor left the sleeping quarters. Dagmar stared after him. _Hell_. That man was going to give her a heart attack one of these days, she thought, half in terror and half in exasperated anger. Let's see him laugh at her _then_!

Since the Ambassador had discovered that she was somewhat hypersensitive to disapproval from her superiors, the male had taken a sadistic sort of glee in shouting at her angrily for no reason other than it amused him. Worse –Dagmar knew he was doing it on purpose and couldn't stop _reacting_!

At first glance, it almost looked like a sense of humour. What Dagmar suspected it was really was, was some sort of crazy, latent sadism that came out to play whenever she was around.

Thelen, who had decided to use her stomach as a pillow at some point, snarled –if groggily- as he was jostled by Dagmar's somewhat violent awakening. "If you want to break my antennae, at least have the decency to do it when I'm _awake_!"

"Sorry!" Dagmar whispered back with a furrowed brow, though she didn't really know why she bothered to be. Andorians had ridiculous hearing; in fact, it was nigh impossible to sneak up on one unless he or she was in a particularly loud and massive crowd. She was probably loud and clear from across the sizeable room to the Andorians.

Then, belatedly, she was horrified. "...Oh, god, are your antennae _okay_?"

A snort was her only answer as a hand –presumably belonging to the acting Chief of Security- settled on her breastbone and pushed her back down into the pillows. Shral had left earlier in the night cycle –his departure, though discreet, causing an absence of warmth that had pulled her out of her slumber- and so was not there to complain. Small mercies, the redhead supposed, as the security officer resettled his head –this time, at her shoulder- and languorously collapsed a pile of pillows behind her to help keep her warm. The ship's overall temperature had been lowered to suit Andorians, and for all that the Andorian-made clothing staved of hypothermia quite effectively, her biology was a little too different for the temperature regulators; when she wasn't moving constantly, the cold seeped back in, though not as much as when she had been wearing Terran clothing.

An antenna brushed over the bridge of her nose.

Dagmar paused, wondering if she was imagining things as she blinked owlishly and turned her head just fractionally towards the Andorian.

He was asleep, at least, as near as she could tell, had probably fallen asleep instantly, since his hand, fingers loose and fingertips calloused, hadn't moved from the plane of her breastbone. She wasn't particularly disturbed –sleeping with thirty-plus Andorians in one room desensitized one to that kind of contact. That her legs were entangled with his was not particularly interesting either; in a sleeping pile such as this, she'd once found herself with one knee drawn over a complete stranger's stomach while the inside thigh of the other played pillow to someone else. That she could feel last vestigial remains of the ancient Andorians' exoskeletons in the form of lines of smooth chitin was certainly _interesting_ but not worrying in the slightest. Some Andorians had those faint, almost indiscernible traces of their ancestor's more insect-like forms, and others didn't –not unlike how some Humans had, say, freckles and others didn't.

Some Andorians even had the faintest traces of this exoskeleton long their antennae, but Dagmar wasn't allowed to examine those very closely for obvious reasons.

The exoskeleton wasn't readily visible, which she had found surprising. The chitin was easy enough to feel, particularly in close quarters, but there was no distinctive colouration over or around the smooth and shallow ridges. In the right lighting, they were almost unnoticeable. This close, however, she could feel most of Thelen's faint exoskeleton along the tops of his thighs and his ribcage, lining the sharp outer bone of his forearms from wrist to elbow, converging over his own breastbone to protect the heart.

Shral, near as she could tell, had no such exoskeleton.

"_Go-to-sleep_." Thelen, who apparently wasn't asleep at all, ordered gruffly, surprising her. The redhead frowned.

"Can't!" She mumbled back in protest. And she couldn't. Thanks to Thoris, she was wide awake.

An exasperated sigh. "...Why _not_?"

"Adrenaline." Dagmar answered simply, voice still hushed more as a courtesy than anything else.

"Well stop poking me, at least!"

Oops.

...She maybe should have made sure Thelen was actually asleep before poking at his exoskeleton. Just maybe.

With an awkward, apologetic grimace that he probably couldn't see anyway, she offered, "...I'm curious?"

"Then go be curious with Vilashral and let _me_ sleep!" The Chief of Security grumped, rolling away from her and abandoning her to the cold.

Deflating somewhat –half because Thelen was cranky and half because it was bloody cold- Dagmar pushed herself to her feet and began to pick her way over to the door as quietly as possible.

Shral was alone in the Mess when Dagmar finally found him, off to the side and out of the way. He had a stack of PADDs in front of him, and a mug of _katheka_ in one hand. His antennae wiggled in her direction as she approached.

"Hey, Shral." Dagmar greeted, remembering to incline her head politely. A moment later, she stepped closer and raised her hand.

Since she knew Shral somewhat, it wasn't necessary for her to bow in greeting, but in absence of antennae on her part, she still had to bow her head in mimicry of the appropriate antennae-wiggle. The hand gesture was her initiative, showing familiarity and affection. Thelen greeted her as such all the time, and she knew Shral only a little less than she knew Thelen, so it seemed appropriate to greet them with the same level of familiarity.

At least, to her it did.

When Shral returned the nod with an antennae wiggle but didn't immediately press his hand to hers, she twenty-first century Human started to feel awkward. Was that not okay? It was okay when Thelen did it, wasn't it? Why wasn't it okay now?

When the aide kept staring at her hand, as if it was some strange puzzle that he'd never seen before, her stomach squirmed uncomfortably and, cringing, her fingers curled and she awkwardly dropped her hand to her side. Her face burned and her face showed a little more hurt than she would have liked.

If she was lucky, maybe the Andorian wouldn't understand her expression and chalk it up to embarrassment instead.

"It is not appropriate for you to display such familiarity towards me." Shral told her suddenly, eyes flat and antennae neutral. "You are not yet able to judge the progression of relationships here; you will either offend someone or give them an incorrect impression of your character."

Wandering into an abandoned ice cave and dying of hypothermia suddenly didn't seem like such a bad idea after all.

At least it would save her the complete humiliation of getting every other cultural nuance wrong.

"Sorry." She mumbled, averting her eyes off to the side and shifting her weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably. Her face was probably well beyond lobster red at this point.

"Sit." Shral commanded, eyes shifting away from her as he picked up a PADD from the table. Gingerly, she complied, though Dagmar internally debated whether or not she could plead sudden fatigue and go back to Thelen.

Thelen, at least, didn't seem to mind it so much when she slipped up.

But _why_ did she keep making so many mistakes? It was like for every ten things she learned not to do, there were another twenty that she didn't know about. She'd been afraid of this from the get go –of thinking she understood the culture and finding that, no, she really didn't.

...She wanted to go home.

Not Earth, though. _Home_.

Home, where global warming was an impending disaster and people were still fighting in the Middle East, and the North Koreans were absolutely paranoid about everything, and people worried over whether or not the world would end in 2012, and Canadians weren't necessarily as nice or polite as advertized. Back where aliens didn't exist, and space exploration was going nowhere fast, and everybody swore there would never be another World War.

Back where things _made sense_.

Yes, home was terrible. It was corrupt and polluted and every day it seemed one step closer to going pear-shaped, but it was _home_.

Her sinuses began to sting uncomfortably, a precursor to crying and something she desperately wanted to avoid. Two counts of sobbing in front of an Andorian would probably destroy what was left of her self-confidence –never mind her self-esteem.

Wetting her lips, the Canadian began awkwardly, "I _know_ that I don't really understand your culture."

Shral's antennae swivelled towards her –she caught the movement in her peripheral vision, looking away as she was- and she felt eyes on her. For a moment, her throat felt like it was trying to close up and she had to actively fight the overwhelming flight impulse that seized her nervous system.

"But I'm _trying_," Dagmar forced herself to continue, painfully. "Half the time I don't even know what I'm doing wrong, and most of the time I wish I'd never come here, but I'm _trying_."

To be brutally honest, the redhead wasn't sure where she was going with this. It just felt like something that really needed to be said.

"_Andoria_?" Shral asked suddenly, and his tone was strange –low and tinged with something that she couldn't identify.

Dagmar blinked, looking over at the aide at last. "Sorry?"

Verdant eyes were narrowed at her. "You regret coming to Andoria?"

Well, technically they weren't _there_ yet, but—

Oh.

"No." Dagmar shook her head, understanding. Shral's expression didn't change. "When I said 'here,' I meant _this time_. To be honest, I don't think it'll matter where I go –I'm still never really going to fit in anywhere."

Shral regarded her for a long time with a serious, almost stern expression that made the harsh lines of his face seem all the more alien to her. Silence flooded the space in between, but it wasn't the awkward sort that Dagmar had grown to expect. It was... searching, she supposed, though she didn't know who was searching for what. The Canadian merely met the Andorian's gaze and waited, because that seemed to be the thing to do at the time.

Slowly, reminding Dagmar of a glacier's slow slide down a valley slope, Shral raised his hand, palm facing her.

Something embarrassingly like elation set warm fuzzy things alight in her belly, and it probably showed in the renewed flush of her face –something she damned her pasty complexion for time and time again- as she raised her hand and pressed her palm to his.

The stinging of her sinuses flared into something tenfold, blue eyes watering to the point of obscuring her vision, and Dagmar swore internally. Her emotions were a bloody rollercoaster. What was _wrong_ with her?

She hadn't realized she'd done it until her forehead contacted stiff leather and she felt the muscle beneath tensed dangerously. Her fingers had, of their own accord, slipped between his, their paired hands held awkwardly upright, and her head had settled on his shoulder.

There was a long and awkward pause where Dagmar tried to remember how this had happened and Shral attempted to find a logical reason for the impromptu leaning.

At length, the Andorian inquired, just a little coolly, "What are you doing?"

Too late to run, Dagmar sighed inwardly, and she mumbled, "I needed a hug and you probably aren't ever going to give me one, so I'm just going to lean on you for a moment, okay?"

Strangely, he let her.


	21. Protocol

**TWENTY-ONE: Protocol**

Thelen had never been especially prone to worry or anxiety; a trait for which he had been commended throughout his career, in fact.

But he would, perhaps, grudgingly admit to feeling something not unlike concern as he watched the Human woman fall in line behind the Ambassador's aide. There was a moment where she had hesitated, just fractionally, before stepping out of the transport ship and into the full view of several government officials –a moment of visible uncertainty that could have ruined everything. The Ambassador was highly respected and equalled many of those officials, but a sign of weakness would have been taken very poorly.

But the Terran had recovered herself almost as quickly as she had fallen prey to whatever doubt had stilled her limbs, and the hesitation could easily be passed off as surprise at the sudden drop in temperature to anyone who asked. Humans were sensitive to such things, most Andorians knew, and the temperature on the planet was considerably colder than that of the transport.

The standard protocol was observed by the officials, the traditional asking after of the Ambassador's success, health, and family, as well as that of his subordinates –but anyone could see that more than a few of the officials in question were distracted. The appearance of a pink-skin in Thoris' entourage was a curiosity; many of the Ministers had never seen a Human before –not in person, at least.

Thoris answered the ritual questions with the appropriate responses –his task had been completed successfully, his health and family were beyond question, and his subordinates were well taken care of.

Dagmar appeared puzzled by the exchange, but wisely refrained from voicing whatever questions she had; she did not have permission to speak –and neither did anyone else.

Once the protocol had been observed to the officials and diplomats' satisfaction, one of the Ministers fixed Dagmar with an imperious stare. The Human fought not to fidget, but not very visibly –Thelen only noticed because she stood a pace in front of him and he was accustomed to her movements.

"I was under the impression that your species wastaller." The Minister commented archly.

The translator could easily have spoken out of turn –indeed, Thelen suspected that was the Minister's intent- but she was too clever and too suspicious. Her own species had tried similar tactics, she had told him once, and Thelen was pleased to see that she had learned from the experience. Instead of replying directly, the redheaded female turned to Ambassador Thoris and executed a small bow, wordlessly asking for permission from her superior to engage Thoris' equal.

Something vaguely resembling pride set his antennae wiggling, just slightly; she had learned quickly and had learned well, in those weeks on the transport.

"Proceed." Thoris gave his permission dismissively. Dagmar offered a smile of thanks –a gesture which visibly confused some of the diplomats present- and turned to face the Minister who had spoken to her.

"I am of average height for a female of my species and racial background," The Terran woman told the Minister, emulating the correct, submissive body language perfectly –her chin down, her arms loose by her sides and her stance open- save for her eyes, which maintained direct contact with the Minister's. _Humans_ and their need for eye contact, the security officer snorted inwardly. "However, there are many varieties of Humans, and I am not a typical representative of them all."

Then, concluding her response, the Human bowed to the Minister, long enough to be respectful but not so long as to be facetious, and then straightened once again into a neutral stance.

The Minister, tall for an Andorian and as arrogant as he was old, turned on his heel and rejoined the other politicians, antennae flicking ever so slightly with annoyance; the Human had not played along.

Earth had Terra Prime.

Andoria merely had bigots.

* * *

><p>"Quarters were commissioned to suit your physiology and cultural preferences." Thelen explained to the Human woman as he escorted her into the structure in question.<p>

It was a relatively small building, situated low in the city's levels to take advantage of the geothermal heat and carved into the ice with function and efficiency in mind over aesthetics. No matter –additional carvings and decorations could be commissioned at a later date.

The overall floor plan included large communal rooms after the Andorian fashion and several smaller rooms to accommodate the Human sense of privacy. The main sleeping area was one such smaller room –and, after the more Human fashion, it was one of the few rooms with functional architects had been offended by the very idea of a sleeping area with _doors_. Worse - it was uncomfortably warm with the temperature regulators working hard to maintain a healthy heat level for the Terran. The builders had complained emphatically.

"_Ooh_, _warm!_" Dagmar cooed happily as they stepped into the largest communal area. The sudden temperature change made Thelen grimace; he had nearly forgotten the conditions Humans subjected themselves to, now that he was back on Andoria. How he had tolerated the heat in the first place was unfathomable.

"_Too_ warm." Thelen complained as he stepped into the Andorian equivalent of a dining room. The xenolinguist made a show of making a childish face at him as she followed, which the Andorian ignored. Glancing around the largest room, he frowned, antennae flicking. "They must not expect you to expand your Clan soon; this is too small."

The redheaded female blinked –something she typically did when confused or surprised, the security officer noted. "Expand?"

She must not have noticed the males –and females- on their walk from the Federation Embassy to her new domicile, the lieutenant realized with chagrin. Many had been broadcasting their interest quite clearly.

...Though some had a less friendly sort of interest, as it were; there were as many antennae directed towards the female as there had been away from her.

"You didn't notice?"

Another slow blink. "Notice _what_?"

A thought occurred to the Andorian then, one which explained a great many things about the female and her behaviour. It was, quite possible that she had _no idea_ what Shral had been indicating for the last Terran year. What he had taken for obliviousness was actually ignorance.

"...Perhaps that is a conversation for another time –for the time being, I would recommend looking into acquiring whatever supplies you need." Thelen diverted. "Food, clothing... The Weaver's Guild would be especially interested in doing business with you, I believe."

Blue eyes regarded him suspiciously for a long moment, but Thelen met her gaze evenly. If anyone should have that particular conversation with her, it was the Ambassador's aide.


	22. Intuit

**TWENTY-TWO: Intuit**

The first time Dagmar encountered the Andorian word "_bouf_," it's when she bumped into Minister of Agriculture's primary aide. Not in the literal sense, mind –that would be inexcusable- but she came across the stern-faced female Thallassan in one of the many corridors of the Federation Embassy.

Thallassans were one of the more numerous of the Andorian races, near as Dagmar could tell, and were darker in skin tone than the Bishee Andorians she knew so well. More interesting, however, was the way that the Thallassan woman's antennae came from closer to the back of her skull, not the front, and were knobbly and stiff in their movements.

_Bouf_, as it happened, had two meanings: pink, and useless.

Dagmar had contained her response to a stiff bow and a withering glare that was one part irritation and two parts I-can-find-out-where-your-mates-and-offspring-reside, but it had been a struggle.

From that point onwards, however, it seemed that the usage of the word increased tenfold. The Andorians who liked her (as much as they liked anyone, at least) tended to refer to her as _pink-skin_, which was a marginal improvement, but those that didn't like her nearly as much referred to her almost exclusively as _pink and useless_. The only ones who referred to her by name seemed to be Shral, Ambassador Thoris, and Thelen –with the odd exception of the others who had been in the Andorian compound on Earth, but even they slipped up sometimes.

It was... not quite what she had expected, to be honest. Maybe she was asking for too much, expecting Andoria to be so different from Earth in that respect.

At least on Earth, they didn't call her names.

The thought made her sigh –and attracted the attention of one of the marginally friendlier Andorians nearby. His name was Thelus, and he worked under the Minister of Defence. He spoke a dialect that Dagmar sometimes struggled with –its structure considerably more archaic than the more widespread Andorii and its accent more agricultural than hers ever was.

"What now, pink-skin?" Thelus asked, curious. Dagmar suspected she could translate that a little more smoothly as "what's wrong?" or "what is it?" but she hesitated to actively do so, if only so that she didn't form a habit of translating things colloquially.

Vaguely, Dagmar answered, "I'm lamenting similarities and differences."

She didn't bother to look up from the folktale she'd been assigned –again with the folklore and children's stories! Thelus' station was inferior to hers, if only technically, so she wasn't required to acknowledge him immediately.

"Lieutenant Thelen spoke highly of your adaptability." Thelus commented neutrally. Dagmar glanced over at the male, surprised. Thelus was a bit stockier than the average Andorian, and fractionally shorter, but he retained the same sharp features she was growing so familiar with. His eyes, like hers, were blue –as were those of his two sons and one of his four daughters.

Suppressing a grimace, the Terran lamented, "Sometimes I worry that the lieutenant overestimates me."

Thelus made a noise of interest (Dagmar suspected he'd picked the habit up from her; they often shared lunch breaks) and Dagmar shrugged in response. It amused her, in a vague sort of way, when she saw that Thelus had to puzzle the gesture out –not unlike how she often had to with his antennae.

"Those are very high expectations to live up to, you know." She joked half-heartedly. "Here's hoping I'm not a complete disappointment!"

Thelen would have smiled, albeit stiffly. Shral would have bowed his antennae. Ambassador Thoris would have snorted. Anyone who knew the first things about Humans would have acknowledged the joke.

Thelus took a good five minutes to figure it out, and even then he only offered a slow and mystified, "Human humour is... very strange."

Dagmar sighed again.

She did her best to blend into this new environment of hers; she worked hard, constantly strived to improve her skills and make herself more useful to her employer, and she strictly adhered to the rules she had been taught. It was... difficult, though. More so than she'd thought.

The pair fell into a semi-comfortable silence once again, each working on their respective projects. Dagmar was nearly finished hers an hour or so later –it was hard for her to keep track of time, with her biological clock thinking in terms of twenty-four hour days and the Andorians working on a thirty-something-hour one instead.

Standing and stretching, the redhead made a mental note to praise the Weaver's Guild representative that she'd met the other day for her ingeniousness. When the Terran had complained that the standard temperature regulators didn't function properly on Humans, she had sparked a flurry of activity and inquiries which lead to a newer, much more Human-friendly set of modifications. The Guild regarded her as a test subject to practice on before they accessed the Terran market, but they took their work very seriously, and they took much of Dagmar's advice into consideration for their Human-geared goods. The end result was that the translator no longer had to jog around to maintain an acceptable level of warmth; the sensors were attuned to her physiology now and adjusted the temperature they maintained depending upon how active she was.

In short, she was warm and toasty when she sat around translating things, and comfortably cool when she jogged or did any sort of exercise.

It was_ glorious_.

"I'm done for the day," She informed Thelus, who glanced up from his work and nodded in acknowledgement. "If anyone needs me, I'll be in the gardens."

The gardens were part of a sprawling, carefully cultivated courtyard that separated the government offices from the surrounding buildings –many of which were Guild-owned, where policies and such were discussed amongst members and voted upon. There was a particular area that Dagmar had grown fond of –a little niche that was off to the side and nearly overrun with the thorny _vithi_ plants. There was a low, flat boulder right in the middle of the niche, and Dagmar was fond of sitting on it and thinking. The xenolinguist didn't meditate –at least, not in the usual sense- but she often found herself going to that little spot to sit and think deeply about whatever was troubling her. It gave her a quiet sense of peace, that place, and if anyone saw her there, they never bothered her.

How the vegetation could survive such low temperatures, Dagmar couldn't hazard a guess, but the plants seemed healthy enough to her.

For once, Dagmar wasn't sitting on that rock and puzzling something over, though. Today, she was just relaxing. With her hood pulled up and her mask pulled over her lower face –even underground, the temperatures could be dangerously cold for her and frostbite was not something Dagmar had any intention of experiencing if she could help it- she arranged herself, cross-legged, and threaded her gloved fingers together loosely on her lap. Away from her coworkers, she no longer needed to retain her stiff, unyielding posture, and allowed her shoulders to slouch comfortably, head bowing and back curving slightly. It was quiet, the sounds of people and civilization muted compared to what it was like on Earth, and the redhead slipped into an almost serene state easily, eyes closed and muscles lax.

The whole world became the pattern of her breathing and the flicker-thought-images of her mind, and the silence was deep and heavy, like her grandmother's favourite quilt.

How long she sat there, comfortably lost in her own thoughts and the silence, Dagmar wasn't sure, but she gradually became aware of something –a strange niggling sensation at the back of her mind. It became more and more persistent as she second slipped by, puzzling the Terran, feeling a lot like intuition but at the same time nothing like it.

Without knowing why, she spoke, "_Thiptho lapth_, Shral."

No one answered, and, feeling a bit daft, she cracked open one eye.

Shral was standing there, looking staring at her with something that looked an awful lot like incredulity; his antennae quivered. Dagmar felt her stomach drop.


	23. Assurance

**TWENTY-THREE: Assurance**

Spirits knew how he did it, but Thelen had this magical ability to always know where to find her. It didn't matter if she was hiding in her office or roaming the various levels of Laibok –the lieutenant was like a bloodhound.

Half the time, she wondered if he's slipped some sort of tracking device into her clothes when she wasn't paying attention...

On this particular occasion, she was meandering down one of the more isolated tunnels, close to the surface, but not very. She hadn't seen a soul for hours, and when she grew tired she settled down into a small cul-de-sac offshoot of the main tunnel. She'd had the foresight to bring food –dried meat and the like- and water, and had even taken the precaution of nabbing a personalized distress beacon; a commonplace object, on a planet of treacherous ice and sometimes violent climate changes.

She'd also brought this new age's version of an iPod with her, too –a small, streamlined thing that fit easily into the palm of her hand. Music has always been a source of comfort for her, and she admired how much the technology had improved since her time. Andorian-made devices such as this one had impressive audio systems –catering, no doubt, to their precise sense of pitch.

Dagmar set the device to play a few classical works –imported from her console back on Earth- and nibbled on some dried, blue-grey meat. It tasted suspiciously like beef, but, to her knowledge, Andoria had no such beasts. The rations were tough, and a little chewy, but the flavour was decent enough.

"If you were half this difficult to keep track of as a child, I pity your parents!"

Dagmar jumped, surprised by the voice that echoed loudly about the tunnel. Thelen was standing in the roughly carved archway to her little alcove, arms akimbo and antennae flicking in mild irritation.

"Hey, Thelen!" She greeted warmly –forgetting, as she often did, to adhere to Andorian custom in favour of showing more Human affection.

The Imperial Guardsman snorted, not bothering to correct her, and approached –more surefooted on the ice than she would probably ever be. When he was close enough, he held out his hand, and Dagmar raised her arm to return the familiar gesture from her seated position. Palms pressed together briefly, before the Andorian shifted to grab hold of her hand and pull her to her feet. Dagmar went along with the insistent pull without much protest.

"It's dangerous to wander alone –especially for you." The lieutenant rebuked seriously. "You're not as strong as we are, and there are parts of this tunnel that not even I would venture into without a good friend..."

Ducking her head at the rebuke but feeling cheeky nonetheless, Dagmar looped her arm around one of his and quipped, "Oh, well –I have nothing to worry, then, do I?"

The calf-eyed smile and the brief touch of calloused fingertips to her knuckles that followed made her grin behind the strange mask she wore. Thelen had learned to read smiles by the faint creases of the corners of her eyes when she wore the thing, largely out of necessity.

She was close to the surface, and it was too cold to go without it. The lower part was opaque and designed to absorb the heat and humidity that resulted from her exhalations and retain it to keep the skin and extremities of her face safe from the subzero temperatures. The upper half was a bit more complicated. It, too, used the heat produced from her skin to maintain a reasonable temperature, but it was designed with a clear visor that stretched from temple to temple to allow her to see clearly without hampering her peripheral vision.

"The music you're listening to –a Terran waltz?" Thelen enquired, open in his curiosity. His antennae bobbed in time with the music. Dagmar nodded and shrugged awkwardly, the movements stifled by her thick and heavy outer-jacket. "Is it not traditional to dance to such things?"

Dagmar offered a second shrug and mumbled indifferently, "Well, you kind of need a partner for that."

"Ah, yes," Thelen remembered her comments from so many weeks ago. "Part of your social bonding mechanisms, if I recall correctly."

Had it really only been weeks? It felt like she's been on Andoria forever...

Without really knowing why, Dagmar impulsively offered, "I could teach you, if you wanted."

And then, awkwardness, stammering, "I mean- that is- if you don't- I just thought-"

Thelen smiled, a genuine calf-eyed smile, and seemed almost charmed by her embarrassed backpedalling. Taking pity on her –thank the Spirits for her mask; he couldn't see how red her face was!- the Andorian settled a hand on her shoulder and said that he would like that very much...

Just not in a rickety ice cave.

To say that she nearly went boneless from relief was an understatement. It was stressful, always having to be absolutely paranoid about offending people, and when something even hinted at going wrong... Dagmar swore her blood pressure went through the roof every time.

The walk back towards some semblance of civilization was a slow one, but not in a bad way. It was a comfortable pace –somewhere between a saunter and a mosey- and it gave her a chance to catch up with the security officer. The closer they got to the heart of Laibok, the warmer the air got –though, by human standards, that wasn't saying much. Increasingly, the rough-hewn tunnels smoothed out and grew more and more elaborate. Carvings sometimes cropped up –on this pillar or that corner- and while Dagmar didn't fully understand some of the things depicted, the appreciated them all the same.

At length, Thelen broached a subject that had probably been bothering him for quite some time. "Shral mentioned something the other day..."

Dagmar grimaced behind her mask. Shral had been avoiding her –which took quite a bit of skill, given that they both worked extensively with the Ambassador. Even when he _was_ in the same room with her, he alternated between staring at her with a look she couldn't even begin to interpret, or following her closely and asking strange questions about her family.

"About what?" She asked, despite having a good guess as to what the answer was.

But Thelen didn't confirm or deny her silent guess. Instead, he raised his eyes, but not his antennae, to the smooth, rounded ceiling of the cavernous ice cave –smoother now that they were not in rough-hewn tunnels- and clasped his hands behind his back in a manner that Dagmar knew very well. Even as he was, eyes fixed above, he moved with a sure-footedness that she envied.

"Among Andorians, there is a phenomenon which you may not know of." The lieutenant began, and Dagmar had a funny feeling that this speech had been rehearsed. "We marry in quads –this you know- but we bond first in pairs. The bonds are not merely emotional bonds, however; Andorians, not unlike Vulcans, possess a form of limited telepathy, and bondmates share a telepathic link as well as an emotional one."

Dagmar nodded distractedly, wondering where this was going. A misstep on a slippery patch of ice nearly introduced her face to the frozen floor, but she caught herself even as the officer's hands closed around her upper arms and stabilized her. Once she was settled, he continued.

"What you did could be taken as a sign of the beginnings of a bond forming between yourself and Vilashral." Thelen explained carefully, almost delicately. "He was... alarmed."

"I don't understand." Dagmar frowned, confused. "I'm Human. I can't bond like that. It's just not possible."

Thelen shook his head, amber-yellow eyes dropping from the ceiling to meet hers. "I have investigated this, also: all Humans possess a minor form of empathy. It is very limited, but it may be enough to trigger such a bond, provided that the individuals are in frequent, close contact and share mutual feelings of affection."

The twenty-first-century woman took a long moment to process thing, sifting through what she knew of Andorian bonds –a thing she was only vaguely aware of- and reviewing Shral's behaviour. Something rebelled, internally, at the thought of some magical, psychic alien bond cropping up out of the blue. Shouldn't she have been aware of something, if any of that were true? Wouldn't she feel different somehow?

Her brow furrowed, confused and thoughtful and sceptical all at once. A hundred thousand thoughts ran through her head –of small moments of affection, of faint, honest praise and a low baritone murmur against her ear. Of _shev'tak_ and _vithi_ flowers, and honey and blood.

As they finally reached the edge of the city, she repeated, at a loss, "But I don't _understand_."

Thelen clasped a hand to her shoulder wordlessly, and strong fingers squeezed gently, the officer ever mindful of his vastly superior strength. It spoke volumes of his regard for Vilashral that he was willing to intervene on his behalf here; if he had been any other Andorian, Thelen would never have so much as considered it. As he walked the redheaded female to her domicile, bidding her a friendly good evening at the door, the security officer questioned the wisdom of his involvement in even this capacity.

"Neither does he." The amber-eyed Andorian offered after a long moment, meeting the girl's pale blue eyes with his own. "You must to speak to one another and attempt to resolve the situation." Lightly, he added, "There may not be a situation to begin with, merely the handiwork of confusion and coincidence."

Guiding the woman past the threshold of her quarters, Thelen suggested softly, in his characteristically sibilant voice, "Talk to Vilashral, Dagmar. It may be nothing."


	24. Ghosts

**TWENTY-FOUR: Ghosts**

The sad, cynical side of Dagmar berated her even as she decided not to speak to Shral, despite Thelen's advice, but it wasn't terribly surprised; she defaulted to some pretty standard avoidance patterns in situations like this, almost subconsciously sometimes.

Dr. Shore had gotten some things right, after all, she supposed; bitter, but only faintly.

What was she supposed to say to Shral, anyway?

"Thelen said to tell you that you're imagining things?" Yeah right. That would go over well.

Or how about, "Shral, while I'm very flattered, I must inform you that I consider myself married to my job as a glorified secretary?" If nothing else, he might laugh.

And then probably never speak to her again.

Not that Shral was much of a chatterbox at the moment either, she lamented internally. Even now, as she was the focus of everyone else in the frosty office, the aide did not look directly at her, except to occasionally glance at her with a vaguely disconcerted expression that she only now could begin to comprehend.

She'd be freaked out, too, if she suspected someone was in her head like Thelen had described to her.

The Human translator opted not to think about it as she continued her explanation of some of the humour used in one of the latest communications between Earth and Andoria to Ambassador Thoris and one of Andoria's many, many Ministers. The politician who had sent the message had been tasteless and had probably not even bothered to read up on Andorian etiquette prior to hitting the 'send' button.

The message itself was innocuous in spirit, merely a proposal regarding the potential in combining Andoria's extremely eco-friendly technology with Earth's innovative agricultural technology. The problem was how it was written. The politician had chosen to address the Andorian Minister of Agriculture and how he had chosen to phrase things –informal, peppered with friendly jabs, and cavalier when he should have been ceremonial, excessively polite, and restrained.

What was going through the man's head? 'Oh, let's just call the angry, blue, samurai-guy _with kill-setting-only phase weapons _"Joe Blue" and make jokes about agriculture on an ice planet -see how that goes over!'

Sometimes, Dagmar swore these twenty-third century Humans were stupider than the ones she grew up with.

And that was saying something.

"Essentially, sirs, this is simple carelessness." Dagmar summed up as delicately as she could. "None of this is meant as an insult –quite the opposite, actually. Amongst Humans, this would be seen as an attempt to 'break the ice' –to shift from stiff formality into an easier, more friendly interaction _without being disrespectful_." –Dagmar took care to stress that point- "Either the author did not fully understand the nature of Andorian etiquette, or he simply did not realize that these things are not as flexible as they are on Earth."

Thoris gave her _the look_. The one that he did when he knew she was trying to smooth things over, and it was getting a bit too thin to work. Sometimes he let her get away with it –so long as she was perfectly honest and frank when dealing with him directly- but this particular occasion looked like a bust.

Dagmar grimaced internally, and awkwardly admitted, "... Admittedly, sirs, this man is rather tactless about it, even with his good intentions... Ham-handed, even."

The Minister frowned impressively, the characteristically sharp lines of his face blockish and blunt in comparison to Shral and Thoris, and his antennae flicked irritably.

A slight, awkward pause reigned momentarily before intuition kicked in and Dagmar blurted out, "I can't say for certain, but this poor attempt at humour may well be taken as a sign of nervousness. I would wager that you, Minister, are not the first to receive a message like this, actually."

_That_ caught the Minister's interest, but not quite how the redheaded woman had intended. Antennae rearing dangerously as he started to go a faint, reddish-purple in the face, the Andorian hissed, "_Cowardice_, you mean!"

Odd, how a blue species flushed purple. It never failed to surprise and bewilder the Human woman.

"Explain," Thoris ordered imperiously, stepping in before the Minister could hurl abuse and furniture.

That had nearly happened once –though, thankfully, that particular instance had not involved Dagmar as the target. A Vulcan delegate had been... well, the only way the delegate's behaviour could be interpreted would be as deliberately tactless as possible, under a thin veneer of emotionless logic. The Andorians had, obviously, been offended. Weapons had been drawn, things had been said, threats and curses had been hurled (though that bit had been admittedly rather one-sided.) All the while the Vulcans valiantly maintained a droning chorus of "I find this behaviour most illogical" and "Irrational behaviour will achieve nothing," interspersed with the odd "Perhaps the Andorians are not ready to forget past grievances," (which, naturally, made things worse) against the torrent of noise from the Andorian side of the room.

Dagmar shook her head internally, remembering the chaos and the mess. She'd been present as an observer on Ambassador Thoris' command; all the better to see the system she was working with in action, apparently.

What bleak prospects she had...

"There is no need to explain!" The Minister snarled, startling Dagmar into the present. "This is an inexcusable offence! Blatant, _crawling_ cowardice!"

Thoris stood his ground, calm and unaffected. "I believe otherwise."

Shral shifted, off to the side, catching the redhead's attention briefly. Dagmar tried to ignore him because if she didn't, she'd start to wonder about his antennae-gestures and his expression. She'd stop and ponder his posture and the way his hands unclasped from behind his back. The way fingers twitched and moved towards her in a way that made her think that Shral didn't even realize he was doing it.

Because if she didn't ignore him, she'd forget what she wanted to say and start wondering about honey and blood and harmless endearments and the soft touch of leather and calloused hands-

The ghost-sensation of cool fingers between hers.

Shral's hand twitched again, fingers clenching and relaxing.

Impossibly green eyes bored into hers from across the room and her mouth went dry.

Dagmar fought to focus on the task at hand and forced her eyes away.

Swallowing nervously –angry Andorians never failed to set her on edge, adrenaline seeping into her system like a poison- the translator hastened to obey Thoris' command. "What I mean, sirs, is that relations between Earth and Andoria are still very new, and therefore fragile and unstable. People are nervous about that. What you view as an insulting failure to observe the proper etiquette, the author probably viewed as a way to earnestly express as desire for a strong and stable bridge. Humans use humour to diffuse tension and endear ourselves to others; it's part of how we make friends."

It never failed to throw her, how an Andorian's mood could swing from one extreme to the other. Where rage had blackened the Minister's expression, suddenly perfect calm reigned. Indeed, interest, polite and eager, suddenly showed through in the soft curve of the Andorian's antennae and the steeple of his blunt blue fingers. Dagmar fought not to lose her proverbial balance but it was like standing on the dry sand of a beach one moment, and then finding herself up to her gills in seaweed the next, with no recollection of how one transitioned to the other.

"This... politician..." The Minister began uncertainly, indicating the PADD in her hand, which bore the translated message. Bewilderment was the only word that could describe his expression. "Wishes to _befriend_ me? To achieve further relations between our people?"

Not knowing what else to say, the redhead answered simply, "Yes, Minister."

_"_Intriguing..." The Minister mused thoughtfully. Turning to Thoris in an obvious dismissal, robes swishing about his ankles, he stated with the typical sort of imperiousness, "I will share this with the other Ministers."

Was it really such a novel concept? Thoris had likely employed her much for the same purpose, after all.

Dagmar might not have been a genius, but she could figure that much out.

A salute –curt and formal and everything Andorian politics were on the surface- and a long moment later, and the Minister swept out of the office without another word, long-legged strides under a proud, broad back. Dagmar let out a quiet sigh of relief that was probably like the wail of a siren to her boss and co-worker.

A Human boss would have commended her for handling things so well and sorting out such a serious misunderstanding; Thoris dismissed her with a grunt and a negligent wave of his hand, followed with a faint wiggle of his bowed antennae in her direction.

She beamed, as though he had sung praises, because by then, Dagmar had learned that Andorians didn't say all that they meant to say -they showed it...

And then she left, because Shral was still staring and her heart beat a nervous, uncomfortable tattoo; a new, unsettling development that made her wonder if she should go find a medic.

Dagmar spent the rest of her work day hiding behind stacks of PADDs in loneliest section of the building archives that she could find. The dark-eyed curator didn't question her habit of working there sometimes; perhaps the aging Andorian matron thought that it was an odd Human quirk, perhaps the woman somehow understood. Either way, the resident pink-skin relished the quiet and the solitude. It let her work quickly and in peace, away from sharp eyes and keen antennae.

Except the curator, that is.

And the ghost-sensation of another set of eyes.

The one thing that Dagmar loved about her brain –really loved- was that, while she wasn't a genius or a revolutionary or any of those great things, her mind had this trick of turning off all of the background programs and just letting her _work_. Emotions? Sleep mode. Inner turmoil? Switched off. Wild speculations and paranoia? Shut down.

It was only a temporary state, of course – but Dagmar would take whatever peace was given to her.


	25. Supplicant

A/N: Sorry for the delay in updates! Life has been doing its thing again, and I've been crazy busy with school and such. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>TWENTY-FIVE: Supplicant<strong>

"No! You're the male here –you lead!" The hand at his shoulder tensed with her irritation.

The hand at the curve of her waist shifted minutely with his puzzlement. "Are you certain? This seems… counter-intuitive."

The steps came awkwardly, haltingly. They stumbled a bit, here and there, and nearly gave up twice -but then, a moment, where they flowed into a pattern with the music as their guide and metronome, until they did not even need the music and the movement became flawless.

Her hand relaxed, fingers loose and comfortable over the curve of his shoulder, heat seeping through his civilian clothes and warming the flesh there, even through her gloves. His hand found the correct position at her waist once again, ever mindful of fragile float ribs nearby; a quiet paranoia born of learning what fragile things Human bones were.

A wry smile, as she spoke. "It's perfectly normal for the male to lead –for Humans, at least. In fact-"

Disaster.

"—_Ow_!"

Chagrin, injured pride. Embarrassment cloistered behind the sneer that sharpened already narrow features. His antennae flicked. "I'm fairly certain your foot was _not_ supposed to be there. Do you actually know what you're doing, Dagmar?"

Silence. And then, "Thelen?"

"Yes?" Wary, the Andorian officer watched his instructor and partner carefully.

Blue eyes glared up at him over an angry frown. "_Shut up and dance_."

Such was the way of the dance lessons between Dagmar and Thelen –at first. Thelen had to constantly be reminded that it was his job to lead, not hers. Dagmar frequently had to remember to be patient with the man who was going against the grain of his very culture. After a time, a few bruised toes, and several painful lessons regarding ice patches and watching where they stepped, the two finally began to find their way about a standard ballroom waltz, if a bit clumsily.

The lessons were always held away from the public eye –out of deference to the fact that dancing was not a common activity on Andoria, and Thelen had no interest in being accused of reckless frivolity by his peers. Dagmar had proposed her domicile as a potential location for their lessons; Thelen had suggested an isolated cave he used to frequent as a child. A flip of an ancient Terran coin (Dagmar had always had the worst habit of losing change in her jeans) had decided the matter for them: the cave.

It was large enough for their dancing –and their fumbling missteps, their inevitable slips and collapses- but small and out of the way enough that no one disturbed the pair. They were cautious in that respect, meeting once a week at most and making a point of being seen wandering about together in the various levels of the city. Dagmar didn't think Thelen would be looked highly upon for wasting time learning Human dances instead of whatever else he was supposed to be doing. It was doubtful that he would be punished, but societal disapproval was bad enough on its own.

Gradually, Dagmar taught the security officer what waltzes she knew, stiff and formal things that an Andorian could appreciate once he or she got past the supposed foolishness of it. It became less of an awkward and sometimes painful chore and more of a relaxing sort of thing that they did now and then.

When they exhausted Dagmar's library of classical music, they turned to Andorian composers, and Dagmar found much of their music to be a pleasure to listen to –though there was the odd piece with some sort of odd, humming-screeching instrument, often going hand-in-hand with a discordant harmony that never quite resolved itself. Those pieces, Dagmar loathed.

Unfortunately, Thelen appeared to be rather taken with the humming-screeching thing, whatever it was. Maybe it sounded better to Andorian ears – a harmony instead of the wail of a dying cat.

It spoke volumes of the redheaded woman's regard for the Andorian that she endured each ensuing aural agony without complaint.

Once they learned each other and the dances well enough, she and Thelen often found themselves debating while they danced, or perhaps discussing politics. Now and then, some new bit of research which was of mutual interest was brought up. Rarer were the small moments of cultural insight that Thelen would offer; interpretations of gestures or phrases that she couldn't quite puzzle out, procedures for various holidays and ceremonies, fragments of folklore from his childhood…

Sometimes they didn't dance at all, merely talked and wandered endless tunnels and caves until they eventually found their way back to civilization.

Thelen repaid her lessons with knowledge and subtle, guiding nudges to help her fit in. He expanded her vocabulary significantly, and walked her through certain ceremonial functions. He laughed, low, rasping and gently amused, when she utterly failed at cooking Andorian food, and then swooped in like some mad blue blur of culinary godliness to fix it. When she nearly made a serious faux pas at the Weaver's Guild, he stepped in and smoothly took over the conversation without so much as batting an eyelid.

Hell, he actually made her decorate the living room of her quarters… a good three days before she received a "surprise" visit from the Ambassador himself. The Ambassador seemed pleased with the attempt at integration –though, admittedly, it was hard to tell. Decor wasn't something that Andorians commented on.

Gradually, under Thelen's guidance, Dagmar began to adapt more and more to Andorian culture. She began to understand some of the small nuances which had previously baffled her. She learned how to deftly side-step a conflict without losing face, how to calm their volatile natures somewhat with reason and a cool head. She observed, with Thelen's help, such things as when it was polite to offer tea, and when to simply break out a bottle of ale, and other such food-related social nuances.

It wasn't until Dagmar learned how to offer her assistance without unintentionally offering an insult as well that the other, less friendly Andorians began to slowly warm up to her. Not all of them of course – but some. More than before.

Shral, however, remained a mystery. Some days, he was friendly and polite and _still pointing his antenna at her_. On other days, however… he became more distant and ambiguous, like he had been immediately after that incident during her meditation.

Those were the worst days for her –frustrating, like trying to swim upriver and not moving an inch after hours and hours of trying.

Eventually, the Human woman cracked.

Not much, mind – just enough to put her foot down and say something.

"Look," Dagmar said suddenly, voice firm but not harsh and her gaze steady. The Ambassador had stepped out of his office for a meeting. It was just her and Shral. "I'm sorry I freaked you out."

Shral opened his mouth to speak, but redheaded translator wasn't done.

"I'm sorry you misinterpreted that entire incident as some sort of mating bond thing. Okay? I'm sorry, but Humans don't do that whole psychic bond stuff. We just don't. It's not how we're wired."

Again, Shral attempted to speak, antennae twitching and face just the faintest, faintest shade of barely-visible purple. Most likely out of mortification. "Th-"

Dagmar ignored the aide, almost unable to stop herself from talking as her voice picked up a frustrated edge. A tiny voice in the back of her mind told her that her boss' office was really not the best place to have this conversation, and that there were at least a dozen far more diplomatic ways to go about this…

Dagmar told the voice to shut up.

"I'm sorry a lucky guess on my part caused problems, I am – but why are you acting so strangely? You don't _talk_ to me anymore. You _never_ visit –not that you did that often to begin with, but still- and half the time I can't tell if you even _want_ to be civil to me. And you keep giving me these weird looks! What do I do with that, Shral?"

The green-eyed aide said nothing, antennae straightening with what the Human woman could only interpret as alarm. Something sharp and strange sparked behind his eyes.

A lesser cousin of dread curled in the base of her belly, less powerful but no less worrying.

A deep breath, a mental fortification, before she asked the question that had been hanging over her head for months. "What do you _want_?"


	26. Indisposed

**TWENTY-SIX: Indisposed**

Shral's antennae were as straight and still rods, giving no quarter, and his face remained expressionless – save for the faintest, faintest look in his verdant eyes. It was a soft look, but not a kind one, and Dagmar had seen it too many times in the eyes of her own species to miss what it was.

Pity.

He pitied her.

As he spoke, slowly and carefully like someone saying something regrettable but trying to choose their words carefully, Dagmar understood why.

"If you were _Andorian_," He began slowly, reluctantly. "You would not have to ask…"

Dagmar squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember to breathe. She did not see the slow wilting of the aide's antennae, or the faintest frown tugging at the corners of his thin lips. She closed her eyes and saw nothing but pity staring back at her from behind her eyelids. It would have been kinder if he had shouted at her, she thought, or berated her for breaking social protocol, or lectured her. It would have been a thousand times kinder.

He spoke softly, but what he said was like a slap across the face.

_If you were Andorian_.

Right.

If she were Andorian, she wouldn't have these problems. She wouldn't misunderstand things, or blunder about. She wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb in a crowd, or tremble in the cold when everyone else commented on the mild weather. She wouldn't have to invent gestures to make up for her lack of antennae, either. She could just walk outside her door and blend in as easily as she breathed.

If she were Andorian.

But she wasn't Andorian, and she never would be.

Something behind her sternum _ached - s_uch a cliché. Such a painful, horrible cliché.

On that transport ship, Dagmar had said something to Shral, once:_ "__I don't think it'll matter where I go –I'm still never really going to fit in anywhere."_

How true that was proving to be.

Her eyes and sinuses stung with that tell-tale sign as deep-seated frustration and something not too far from despair rose up, like some ghostly thing that swelled in her chest and pushed out against her ribs and in against her lungs. And it _ached_. Not again, she thought. Not again with the crying.

"I do not wish to imply-"

"I-I, uh," Dagmar began inelegantly; raising her hand to stave off whatever it was that Shral was going to say. "I just need to go. For a minute. I just… one minute."

And then, lest he get the idea she was abandoning her post, "I'll come back."

And if, turning on the balls of her feet and fleeing from the office, she nearly bowled the Ambassador over as he was entering his own office, then she didn't notice. Quite how she found herself in that quiet little niche, with the flat, comfortable stone surrounded by prickly _vithi_, Dagmar didn't know. It didn't seem to matter much, in the face of everything else. She was trying _so hard_ to fit in, to find a place or a people who didn't make her feel like a fossil or a strange and barbaric piece of prehistory. Why was that so hard for her? Wasn't she trying hard enough? Wasn't she doing her best? It wasn't as though she was just sitting on her thumbs and hoping things worked out by themselves. Hadn't she done _enough_?

So why wasn't it working? Why didn't it ever work?

It wasn't fair, the redhead thought dully, her head in her hands. None of it was. It hadn't been fair that day, when she'd woken up in a medical lab, staring up at a man with ridges on his face and alien blue eyes. It wasn't fair now.

Somewhere along the line, Dagmar had started crying. _Goddamn it._ She was so tired of crying, but for some ungodly reason it just seemed to be her default venting mechanism. It didn't matter if she was sad, or angry, or frustrated – she always cried. The redhead really didn't know how to do anything else, when she thought about it. She didn't know how to be angry or sad in a "constructive" way.

Her brother used to call her a big cry baby.

A choked sob, and then someone was next to her – she could feel the body heat, minimal as it was, and felt the shadow fall over her. Thelen, she thought with her eyes still closed, uselessly squeezed shut against the burn of tears. It had to be. No one else followed her when she was upset.

Most Andorians tried to pretend that the resident pink-skin wasn't falling to bits in front of them, or half a second from screaming, and pretended everything was fine. Because _that_ was helpful.

A hand settled on her shoulder, and that was all it took. Dagmar leaned into her friend, her face in her hands and her knees drawn up to her chests, and she openly sobbed, because she didn't know how else to deal with the rush of anger and frustration and utter despair. She didn't start fights to vent anymore. She didn't want to. All she had was crying, and wasn't that just the saddest thing ever?

It was a long while before Dagmar realized she was talking –between sobs, voice thick with a closing throat and the sort of pain people try not to let out too often, because it comes out in floods and tries its damnedest to drown you. She didn't know what she'd said as the wet tracks of tears began to freeze on her face –her mask abandoned inside the building- only that the worst of it came just as she became aware.

"I don't belong here," – a choke, a wracking sob- "I don't belong _anywhere_!"

"No," Her friend agreed. "No, you do not." The hand on her shoulder squeezed lightly as the security officer continued, "But you're getting there."

"No, I'm not." Was the sullen reply, muffled by leather and hiccupping sobs.

"Just the other day, the fellow you were convinced hated your… innards, was it?" Thelen began to counter, shifting his arm to wrap it about her shoulders as he had seen some Humans do. It appeared to be a gesture of close friendship and comfort, so far as he or any other Andorian could tell. "Just the other day, he told me that if all Humans were only half as sensible as you, he'd grow to tolerate them."

Oh, bull. Talev loathed her. He wouldn't say a kind word about her to save his life, never mind praise her.

"…Alright, yes, he did also mention something about the smell – but the Andorian sense of smell can be rather delicate, and sometimes your species produce very unpleasant pheromones."

Dagmar raised her head from the officer's shoulder just long enough to give him a bewildered look. The bloodshot eyes and red nose may have ruined the quizzical expression somewhat, however.

Thelen's antennae were just fractionally bowed together. "Not that _you_ do, precisely – though you do give off particularly, er… _strong_ pheromones when you get weepy on us… But that President of yours was dreadful! I don't know how the Ambassador tolerated it, myself."

The redheaded woman sniffed loudly – and wasn't that an unattractive sound?- and attempted a smile, desperately trying to recover herself at least somewhat. It came out watery and a bit weak. A tear or two had actually frozen onto her face – damned stupid of her to forget her mask like that- and Dagmar winced as the ice stuck to her skin when she tried to brush the tiny icicles aside.

"When females cry, a pheromone is released to indicate that they aren't available for breeding." It was a stupid piece of trivia, but Dagmar didn't really know what else to say, and talking made her feel a bit better. "It's reduces the amount of testosterone – a male-specific hormone relating to sex drive and violence- significantly in most males."

Thelen actually seemed intrigued by the idea, his antennae twitching forwards in curiosity. "Is _that_ what it does? How fascinating! Andorians don't have pheromone responses like that at all! Pity I didn't become a scientist –but I never had the skill needed for that work; it's all test tubes and data pads and not a single weapon anywhere in sight."

Dagmar was unsurprised; Thelen as a scientist just didn't seem right in her mind, anyway. Her face felt puffy and too warm, despite the frozen tears, and she was suddenly very embarrassed to be in such a state. With gloved fingers, the Human woman tried to compose herself once more.

Lamely, she offered, "It's supposed to trigger comforting or supportive responses in other females, too."

"We don't have that, either." Thelen nodded, antennae bowing a little again. "When an Andorian female is available, she is aggressive and assertive… but when she's unavailable, she's just aggressive!"

Dagmar snorted – or tried to, at least. Her nose had gone numb from the cold at some point, and when Dagmar covered her nose and mouth behind the dome of her two hands and exhaled hot air, the heat stung.

She needed to get back inside soon.

Thelen noticed. Thelen always noticed these things.

"Come." He said, soft and sibilant and probably her only real friend in the entire goddamn quadrant. Dagmar glanced up at him, with his yellow-amber eyes, and saw a different sort of softness there, in a face composed of harsh angles and chitin and sharp teeth. But it wasn't like Shral's pity; it wasn't an I-feel-sorry-for-you look.

It was just… soft. Friendly. Kind, maybe. It was hard to put the ideas of kindness and Andorians together, what with the Andorian warrior culture and their no-stun-setting weapons, but there it was. Calloused hands tugged her to her feet, face still wet with rapidly freezing tears and eyes puffy and red.

"I'll take you home." Thelen offered.

But she shook her head, feeling the drag of her ponytail, thick and coarse hair swishing noisily against the fabric of her insulated uniform. She had to return to her post. She had to. To do otherwise would be… inexcusable.

Still shaking her head, the redheaded woman sniffed and wiped at her cheeks with the heel of her gloved hand, "I have to go back."

Thelen nodded and stood aside, because that's what an Andorian did when faced with the call of duty. There was no thought of wheedling or cajoling or assuring her that her employer would surely understand. It simply didn't compute. Duty was duty – something that was, strangely, almost a sacred thing in the Andorian mind.

God knows how she'd excuse her absence. Illness, maybe. Yeah. That would work. She'd suddenly felt ill and had excused herself. It was close enough to the truth. Maybe the Ambassador wouldn't be able to tell that she was lying. Hopefully. With a parting nod to her friend, Dagmar turned and began the slow, tired trudge back to the Ambassador Thoris' office.

"I'm sorry, sir." Dagmar apologized for the hundredth time since her return. "I was unwell – I had not intended to be absent for as long as I was."

Thoris' antennae didn't exactly look promising – but, then, the Ambassador seemed tired and distracted as well. The meeting he had been attending had not gone well, by any account, from what Dagmar had gathered. Off to the side, Shral stood with his hands clasped behind his back, back and antennae held upright. Now and then he glanced over at her, with a flicker-expression of something Dagmar couldn't identify.

"I see. Do you require further time to recover?" The Ambassador inquired stiffly, not terse but not particularly warm, either.

Dagmar shook her head, shoulders stiff with anxiety. "No, sir. I believe it was only a momentary thing. It won't happen again, sir."

It had _better _not, at least.

"Good." Thoris drawled, and Dagmar didn't like that speculative look in his eyes. "But, given your species' fragility, I expect you to report to a physician after your shift."

"Yes, sir." She responded dutifully, eyes downcast.

"And, to ensure that you do so, Shral will escort you."

…_No_. Just no. Dagmar didn't think she could handle that right now - not ten minutes after the git had made her cry like that. She couldn't do it, not without risking another sobbing fit, or becoming angry 0 either of which could prove disastrous in such a volatile culture.

Maybe she could lie and get out of it?

"Sir, with all due respect-" Dagmar began tentatively, desperately hoping to worm her way out of Shral's escort.

Ambassador Thoris cut her off with a look, and the Human woman fell silent immediately.

Dagmar swore internally, feeling the muscles in her jaw tremble as she clenched her teeth together, all at once dismayed, depressed, and angered. Shral was the _last_ person she wanted to be around at the moment. Hell, she'd rather spend time with the semi-psychotic Vulcan, Kov.

And that was saying something.

At least Kov hadn't made her cry.


	27. Reparation

**TWENTY-SEVEN: Reparation**

The Embassy wasn't too terribly far from Laibok's central core and was, accordingly, near several medical facilities. A handful were in walking distance, so Dagmar simple picked one and started moving.

"I believe-" Shral began suddenly.

But Dagmar wasn't interested in conversation anymore.

"Please don't. I'm just too tired." She interrupted tiredly, feeling the breach of conduct in the reflexive cringe that followed, but not having the heart to care. She felt old and tired – the way she always did when she cried like that.

The aide didn't try to speak to her again and Dagmar endured the rest of the walk in silence, but one didn't have to be Human to notice the sadness that hung over the translator. Shral frowned, but said nothing – instinct and ingrained cultural customs told him to leave the red-haired female be. There was a kind of fragility there, something he had mistakenly triggered, which left him unbalanced. Andorian females were not fragile. They hid their sadness and weaknesses behind aggression and duty. This female wore them openly, like a banner on some ancient Human crusade; an open, weeping wound that never closed, never ceased to bleed.

It… fascinated him, on multiple levels. Not the grief or the sadness in and of themselves –never that- but the fact that the translator made no real attempt to hide it. Was that somehow stronger? It made him wonder if the hard veneer of Andorian women was really just a form of brittleness.

Foolish, idle, alien thoughts – but he had them all the same.

Andorians wanted strong bond-mates – spouses upon whom they can rely for protection and support. In Andoria's harsh and unforgiving environment, the weak are undesirable. Shral was one of the strong, and had accordingly always expected to find at least one bond-mate within the Imperial Guard, if not all three. That he would see so much potential in a civilian, an alien whose manner and customs were as foreign to him as his were to her… It puzzled him. Dagmar was not strong. She did not bear arms with soldiers, nor was she skilled in armed combat, but there was steel behind the sorrow – a proud, straight spine and a steady hand. Anything else, and she would never have survived long enough to make it to Andoria.

No, Dagmar was did not have what an Andorian would call strength.

Her strength was Human.

She knew where the facility was – had been put through a sort of routine check-up there recently, with terse doctors who were only just completing their studies of Human physiology. The entire thing had made her miss Dr. Phlox and his Tribbles.

A thin-faced Andorian male with kind sort of disposition one usually found in a wet cat took her file and waved her into a side room. "What is the problem?"

Dagmar followed the physician wordlessly until she had entered the side room and the door – a necessary breach of normal Andorian customs in a medical facility- and then simply said, "I felt unwell earlier today and found it necessary to temporarily leave my post. Ambassador Thoris ordered me to report to a physician in order to ascertain that the spell was nothing serious."

The physician nodded, expressionless and antennae inclined slightly to indicate polite interest only, as he withdrew a handheld scanning device. "Remain still."

The room was cold, sterile, shaded in greys and faint white-blues, with too-bright lights and sharp edges everywhere. Andorian clinics were nothing like Human ones. God, she missed Phlox.

The scanner warbled for a long while, needing to be calibrated to scanning a Human before anything could be accomplished. It gave Dagmar time to think – to consider the events in Ambassador Thoris' office. She wondered, belatedly, if she had somehow misinterpreted something, or if she had overacted. The thought made her uncomfortable. What if she'd made another mistake? Oh, god, not _another_ mistake… Insecurity and doubt seeped in under the shadow of some fluttering anxiety in her belly. It gnawed at her like some wasting disease, ate away at her surety and confidence and, yes, that faint, self-righteous anger born of feeling wronged and hurt.

After a moment the machine chirped, suddenly, loudly, and Dagmar startled. The Andorian physician said gave her a quizzical look and then offered dismissively, "Your vitals are normal. I do not detect any anomalies, parasites, viruses, or foreign bacteria."

The blue-eyed Human nodded, and left, a troubled mood coming over her as she returned to the waiting room. There were very few occupants – it was not customary for Andorians to linger in such a place as Humans might. Andorians rarely fell ill, battle-injuries aside, and when they did they would deny it and put off seeing a physician until their illness left them incapacitated. After that, they were just violent, foul-tempered, and unlikely to cooperate with much of anything.

A cooperative, completely calm Human female showing up under her own power was something of a novelty for most Andorian doctors.

Shral was waiting for her, hovering just outside of the clinic. When she exited the building and stepped out onto the steet, his antennae perked upwards and towards her –not quite assuming their usual position of pointed attentiveness, but close- and he shifted to face her fully. Verdant eyes gave her a brisk, all-business kind of once-over.

After a long moment, Shral asked in his low baritone, "You are well?"

Dagmar nodded, unable to take her eyes off of the aide as she wondered and felt a rising sense of shame. This Andorian – this man, regardless of species- had done so much for her. He'd been the one to push her credentials and her resume towards the Ambassador, had subtly guided her career and, yes, had even been a friend to her… And what had she repaid him with? Awkwardness, random bouts of sobbing, misunderstandings, and discomfort.

Yes, shame was a good word for what the redheaded translator felt in that moment – but it failed to describe the horrible, constricting feeling, like a stone in her heart, or the wave of regret that followed it.

"…I'm sorry." She breathed, suddenly and hurriedly, because it needed to be said and she wasn't brave enough to say it any slower. Because he deserved an apology. Because, goddamn it, she'd made a _mistake_, and no friendship was worth less than petty anger over a stupid misunderstanding.

It was with a slow, shaky breath that she forced herself to continue – the fight against her natural flight instincts an uphill struggle. "I reacted pretty badly earlier, and I'm sorry. You didn't deserve any of that, or anything else I've done, and I'm so, so sorry. You've been a good friend, and you've helped me so much… "

Lamely, Dagmar trailed off, not knowing what else to say...

Shral – Vilashral- could have reacted in any number of ways. He could have been offended, or even placated. He could have pitched a fit about how ungrateful she was –and she had been- or perhaps preached about her inability to understand the finer points of Andorian society. He could have turned around and walked away without so much as another word, if he had so wished, and Dagmar would not have stopped him. But he didn't. He didn't do any of those things at all.

Instead, Shral simply raised a hand, palm facing outwards, and waited.

Dagmar's eyes stung, moved by an act of affection she wasn't sure she deserved, and the redheaded Human raised her hand to press her palm to his in the Andorian custom. The gesture felt almost natural, despite how rarely she performed the movement.

This time, in a strange parody of that night on the transport ship so very long ago, it was Shral's fingers which slipped through hers, and it was he who inclined his head. He did not rest his head upon her shoulder, as she had once done with him, but the calloused finger tips of his free hand brushed the outside of her arm lightly. A trail of goose-bumps followed in their wake, under the fabric of her jacket, as Shral offered a faint, thin Human smile under a calf-eyed Andorian one.

The world went strangely still in that moment, that tiny space of time in the all but deserted waiting room of a cold and severe Andorian clinic. Suddenly, the background of the world didn't seem very interesting; if someone asked Dagmar, later, what colour building next to her was, she would only remember verdant green eyes and a slow, quiet moment of calm.

Call it cliché and stupid, but that single moment gave her more peace than every single one of her bar fights and meditations and drinking binges put together had ever done.

* * *

><p>Several meters away, well out of sight (not that the pair was paying much attention) the Andorian Ambassador to Earth and Tellar bowed his antennae together and shook his head as he observed the scene. It was good to learn that his translator was not ill, but it was vastly better to learn that whatever foolishness has occurred while he had been away was already repaired.<p>

Thoris remembered many such moments like the one he was witnessing, and it was nostalgia, not any sense of privacy, which drove the Andorian male to leave the scene and return to his clan's Lodge; through their bond, on the other side of the city, Thoris' mates shared a quiet, telepathic sigh as they, too, were prompted to remember.


	28. Domestic Matters

**TWENTY-EIGHT: Domestic Matters**

The lights in the open living area of Dagmar's home slowly switched to their daytime cycle settings, gradually brightening the room, and the redheaded Human rolled her head to one side, a sleep-slowed grimace twisting her lips as she felt the muscles protest. Her forehead brushed against… antenna? Frowning, ignoring her pained muscles, Dagmar cracked an eye open.

Oh, okay. It was just Thelen. Wait, Thelen?

_Action movies. Laughter. The cold burn of not-quite-minty Andorian ale. Talking. Talking until they were too tired to talk, too tired to move from the couch they had been lounging on- _

There we go! She remembered now. Thelen had come over again. Lately, he'd taken to spending a great deal of time at her domicile. Most people at the Embassy – those prone to gossip, anyway- were convinced that Dagmar and Thelen had become playmates. Truthfully, all she and Thelen were doing was watching Human and Andorian films. It tended to keep them up rather late.

Thelen insisted it was a good way for her to learn some of the more subtle social ins and outs, and, for the most part, Dagmar agreed. It became something of a down-time hobby for the pair. They would watch an Andorian film, with Thelen pointing out tiny moments and explaining contexts, and then they would watch a Human film, with Dagmar doing the same. Some of their discussions would go on into the wee hours of the morning, until suddenly they were making breakfast together, or they'd wake sometime in the late morning hours, still on the couch with cricks in their necks and lukewarm glasses of Andorian ale sitting, half-drunk, on the table.

Speaking of… Groaning as she raised her head –an act which took entirely too much effort- and she saw an empty bottle of Andorian ale on the low-bearing wooden coffee table, two empty glasses with just traces of the blue liquor at the bottoms of each. The viewing screen that they had been using to watch movies –an action film and a historical drama this time- was blank. It had probably automatically switched off sometime in the night.

The Andorian, limbs sprawled half on the couch and half on her –and vice versa- was out cold, antenna just barely flicking as he dreamt.

It was strangely… domestic, this routine.

"Is it morning already?" Thelen murmured, amber-yellow eyes like slits under heavy eyelids as Thelen's head lolled away from hers slightly. Dagmar answered just as sleepily, but it came out more as a mumbled moan than actual words. The sound made Thelen crack a fractional Human smile, and his antennae, droopy with sleep as they were, curved together slowly. "One of these days, we'll remember to sleep in an actual bed. My neck might even thank me."

If that had come from a Human male, Dagmar would have been extremely uncomfortable – not to mention irritated. But Thelen was Andorian, and the context was completely different.

The redhead snorted and sat up from her slouched position, grimacing again as both her back _and_ her neck protested quite emphatically. "Oof. Yeah. Okay. Next time we watch the movies on the bed. And we'll find some extra pillows, too."

Thelen made an agreeable noise as he slowly clambered off the couch and onto his feet, stretching like a cat after a long nap. When he finished, he straightened his clothes and moved over to the kitchen area, the slow, languid movements still somehow graceful in such a willowy-bodied species.

Sometimes, Andorians made Dagmar feel clumsy.

As Dagmar rolled off of the couch, haphazardly just happening to land on her feet in a somewhat balanced position, the terminal view-screen set in the wall near the kitchen area beeped. Straightening and attempting to straighten out her hair somewhat, Dagmar staggered over to the screen to find that she had an in-coming call.

Intrigued, Dagmar answered it.

"Greetings." A familiar voice spoke calmly, raising his hand in the traditional salute. The face on the screen was nearly as familiar as her own.

Dagmar could have leapt for joy, and nearly did, as a grin broke out over her face. "Varek!"

In the kitchen, Thelen paused, half way between taking out the various pots and pans he'd need to make breakfast for the pair of them, and gave her a strange look, antenna wiggling. Dagmar paid her friend no mind, however.

"How are you? How's T'Lar? I haven't seen either of you in ages!" Dagmar babbled cheerfully, knowing full well that she was probably irking the Vulcan male, but not particularly caring. She was happy – and damned if she wasn't going to enjoy it.

"Peace, Dagmar Gunnarssen." Varek intoned, the same way he used to when she became over-excited about a new idea in his classes. Dagmar's grin grew wider, but she held her peace. "We had not anticipated your move to Andoria – it has been difficult to reach you. We are both functioning within acceptable parameters."

Oh... _Oh_! Damn! She'd completely forgotten to tell Varek about the move! Dagmar mentally kicked herself. She hoped she hadn't caused any sort of worry… Not that Vulcans were particularly _prone_ to worry, or anything, but she'd still feel awful if she had.

"I'm sorry," The translator apologized. "I completely forgot to tell you about the move! I work for Ambassador Thoris now."

Varek inclined his head, patient as ever and dressed in the familiar formal robes of his people. He seemed to be in good health, from what Dagmar could see and there was the strangest sense of… contentment, perhaps? The Vulcan professor answered her with just the faintest touch of wryness in his voice. "I have discovered as much. My wife and I wished to inquire as to your health."

Wife? Dagmar's brow furrowed for a moment before… "Oh! You and T'Lar bonded! Congratulations! I'm very happy for you!" And then, belatedly, "I'm fine! It's been a bit strange, adjusting to the culture and everything, but I have good friends here and they've helped me through most of it."

Varek raised an eyebrow. "A most illogical sentiment, but… I thank you. I am also pleased to hear that you are transitioning well."

Thelen, looking more and more bewildered as each moment went by, set the pans down and, not bothering to straighten his sleep-rumpled clothes, came over to Dagmar's side to see who the mystery caller was.

"Who's this?" Thelen interrupted with the typical Andorian bluntness she had come to expect from the species. His expression was extremely suspicious, and his antennae flicked in irritation.

"Indeed. I believe introductions are in order." Varek murmured, eyeing Dagmar's image on the screen in his home with a fractional lift to his eyebrow once again.

Dagmar flushed. "Sorry – Thelen, this is my former xenobiology professor, Varek. He's been something of a mentor to me ever since I took his a few of his classes. Varek, this is Thelen, a security officer under Ambassador Thoris' employ and a very good friend of mine."

Turning to Thelen, whose look of suspicion had faded somewhat, the Human translator elaborated slightly. "Varek helped me a great deal with learning to deal with living on Earth. He was the one who prompted me to go out and meet people, which lead me to meeting Shral's cousin Theb."

There, introductions done.

Thelen nodded, understanding replacing much of his suspicion, but Andorians were not known as a paranoid and violent species for nothing. He stepped back, but remained standing behind and to the right of Dagmar, assuming a vaguely standoffish posture. Dagmar had to refrain from rolling her eyes.

Even though Vulcan and Andoria were at peace, prejudices and old wounds ran deep. The two species still tended to regard each other warily –something that Earth officials hoped would fade in time. But Dagmar understood, though, she really did; she had grown up in a world full of old wounds and prejudices. She had witnessed the fall of the Twin Towers, and that of the Pentagon, from her living-room couch and she vividly remembered the years of aftermath that followed.

She'd thought the sort of prejudice which had followed had been as stupid then as it was now.

But she understood it.

Addressing Varek, Dagmar turned back to the terminal and offered an awkward smile. "Thelen helps me adjust to Andorian culture and keeps me out of trouble."

The Andorian behind her snorted, but said nothing.

"A most agreeable choice in companions, then." Varek commented with what looked suspiciously like a glimmer of approval in his otherwise flat and calm eyes. Then again, Dagmar could easily have been imagining things, or projecting. In the background on Varek's end of the call, Dagmar heard a door slide open and watched as T'Lar approached her husband and took a seat beside him.

"Hello, T'Lar!" Dagmar chimed, noting how the couple brushed their paired fingers together in the traditional public display of affection between Vulcan spouses.

"Greetings." The Vulcan woman replied, as serene as Dagmar had ever seen her. Her robes were immaculate, as were her husbands, and very formal – and oddly loose. Some Vulcan robes were quite loose and flowing – it helped with the heat of the desert- but the robes T'Lar wore almost looked like maternity clothes. The translator wondered if they were about to go out to some ceremony, or had just returned home from one.

"Dagmar has offered her felicitations on our union." Varek caught his wife up on the conversation. "And her companion is named Thelen."

Thelen grew bored with the conversation around that point and returned to the kitchen to resume making breakfast. Dagmar had recently taught him how to make crepes, and Thelen was determined to make a batch which wasn't partially burnt. For someone who was normally very proficient in the kitchen, sweeter foods tended to baffle the Andorian – which, naturally, he took as some sort of personal challenge. This would be the seventh straight morning of crepes for breakfast, it seemed.

The redheaded Human thought it was both endearing and hilarious, and she didn't bother to suppress the fond smile which followed Thelen as he made a pot of _kathek_a and began to mutter about impossible Terran foods.

After a long moment, Varek caught her attention again. The conversation that followed was not filled with any particular revelations or world-changing news, but it was pleasant and Dagmar found that a few things had changed since she had last spoken to her former professor several months ago. She winced when she was reminded of how long it had been – and felt a wash of guilt when she remembered all of the other people she hadn't spoken to, as well; Zepht, the friendly Denobulan student who had made her laugh during dinner, and Grigor with his horde of cats…

"But, I believe it is time to come to the topic which prompted me to contact you." Varek was saying. Dagmar snapped to attention as surreptitiously as she could.

"And what is that?"

T'Lar was the one who answered her with the typical Vulcan straight-forwardness. "We require an ovum."

After Thelen had ceased accidentally inhaling his _katheka_ and after Dagmar had returned from rushing over to help, the pair of them stared at the Vulcan couple as if they were insane.

"I'm… sorry?" Dagmar asked dumbly, completely blindsided by the request. An _ovum_? What the devil could they possibly want with an _ovum_? And why were the asking her of all people for one? They weren't even from the same species!

T'Lar frowned, just fractionally, unable to understand the Human female's shock. "For what are you apologizing?"

"Humans apologize when they hear something they require clarification for." Varek explained serenely, completely unaffected by the entire conversation.

Thelen, from his position at her side, hissed with what sounded like faint disbelief, "It's like you have a sign on your forehead that says 'Follow me, crazy knife-ears!'"

Varek frowned, extremely unimpressed. Except, being Vulcan, it was more like a slight furrowing of his brow. Dagmar grimaced, feeling extremely uncomfortable, and elbowed Thelen in the ribs, hissing back, "Hey! Don't say stuff like that about my friends – they are not _knife-ears_, they're _Vulcans_! I'm sure they have a very good reason for asking something like that. ..And I _do not_ have a sign on my forehead saying that!"

Thelen snorted, but relented. No apology was forthcoming, but, then, Dagmar hadn't really expected one; prejudices ran deep, and Andorians had long memories – as did Vulcans.

T'Lar spoke at length and clarified her earlier statement, but Dagmar saw the frosty look in her dark, almond-shaped eyes. "My husband and I have not yet been able to conceive; testing has revealed that I am incapable of producing suitable stems cells."

Dagmar winced. That was no easy admission for any women, much less a Vulcan. How much of her pride was T'Lar forcing down to just speak of such an issue to begin with, never mind speaking of it in front of a Human _and_ an Andorian?

"It has been thought that an unfertilized Human ovum, given the relatively simplistic genetic nature of such an cell, might serve as an appropriate substitute for my own." T'Lar's voice was neutral, her expression calm, but Dagmar knew better. Her pride and her cultural reserve were so strongly suppressed that it was visible in the stiffness of her shoulders and the absolute stillness of her folded hands. Varek was the same.

Thelen had the grace to look mildly embarrassed. Andorians valued children extremely highly, and an Andorian who was incapable of having offspring was subjected to equal parts stigma and overwhelming pity. In a climate where, in order to ensure the survival of even a small number of children, it was necessary for mated pairs to combine their resources and cohabitate, an infertile male or female was both a symbol of tragedy… and a social leper. It was never discussed openly, even among family – and Vulcans were even more disinclined to speak of such things.

Bu Varek and T'Lar _were_ speaking about it to her – and Dagmar grasped the magnitude of the gesture at last.

"Thelen, would you…?" Dagmar didn't want to throw Thelen out, but she didn't want to make the Vulcans on the screen before any more uncomfortable than they must have already been.

Thelen nodded, immediately understanding what she intended, and transferred the call to a more private room in her home... but before he did, he made a gesture to the Vulcan spouses he had only just moments ago insulted. It was a small gesture, a hand palm upwards and then rotated at the wrist until the palm of his hand faced the floor. A Vulcan would not understand. A Human not already studied in Andorian body language would have missed it… But Dagmar understood. In turning his open palm over, he expressed a wish for their luck to turn as well.

Thelen would not apologize for his prejudice, but not even an Andorian would wish a childless existence upon a Vulcan.

"I'm sorry, T'Lar." Dagmar sympathized once the door to her bedroom had closed behind her. "…And Thelen is, too, in his way."

In the background, she could just faintly hear Thelen resuming his preparation of their breakfast.

Neither Varek nor T'Lar said anything, but Dagmar guessed that Varek knew something of what Thelen's gesture had meant; there was a faint look of surprise about him, a subtle looseness in the muscles of his neck and shoulders, which belied his stoic expression.

Clearing her throat awkwardly, feeling the first beginnings of hunger beginning to rumble in her belly but ignoring them in favour of the conversation at hand, the Human woman prompted, "So, uh, what precisely do you need from me?"


	29. Shut Down

**TWENTY-NINE: Shut Down**

Disappointment and frustration bit deeply as Dagmar's request was all but thrown in her face.

It was not unusual for a subordinate to make a formal request from their superior – not unlike Feudal samurai would for their daimyo, if they held a specific position within that ranking system under their lord- but Dagmar knew she was pushing it by asking so soon after coming into Ambassador Thoris' employ.

Truthfully, she had half-expected the refusal, but that did not lessen her bitter disappointment and dismay. She had expected this, yes… but she had also hoped otherwise.

Ambassador Thoris had refused point blank to let her leave the planet – had refused to permit her to so much as set foot on a transport ship going anywhere near Vulcan- when Dagmar had made the request. Not only that, but the Ambassador had then demanded to know what had possessed her to dare to ask in the first place.

To her credit, Dagmar held her silence for well over an half an hour of pseudo-interrogations –out of respect for her friends' privacy- until Thoris threatened to dismiss her from her post. Shral observed, openly puzzled, from the sidelines but said nothing.

"It's…" Dagmar was extremely reluctant to speak, but she knew not even T'Lar and Varek would ask her to lose her job over this sort of thing. A large part of her rebelled at the thought of breaking her silence anyway, but reason won over – and self-preservation. The loss of her position would render her… purposeless… And potentially homeless, as she was only on Andoria due to Thoris' employment of her translation skills.

"My mentor, a Vulcan xenobiologist who helped me adjust to living on Earth, was bonded recently – but he and his wife can't conceive."

Even Thoris, rigid and unflappable as the Andorian politician was, was not unaffected by such information. His antennae drooped, just fractionally, before righting themselves again; a passing moment of pity for an affliction that was as good as leprosy to Andorians.

"I see."

Dagmar swallowed, awkward, and continued, "My friend and his wife believe that a Human ovum might be the solution to their problems. They asked me to donate several. It's a quick procedure – only a few weeks- from what I understand; in my time, the process and drug regimen could take months to complete."

The Ambassador's office was silent as the grave for a very long time after that. Shral and Thoris exchanged a long glance, and Dagmar tried not to feel extremely antsy. She wanted to help her friend, but she had to go through the Andorian hierarchy to so much as leave the planet.

She hated that she'd had to divulge such a private thing, even to her boss –whom she knew she could rely on for discretion. It seemed like a horrible violation, a breach of trust, even as logic and sense told her that she would not be blamed for speaking under duress.

"And where is this… procedure meant to take place?" Shral inquired. Both Andorians looked uncomfortable.

The blue-eyed redhead couldn't blame them. Andorians _did not talk about infertility_. At embarrassing all. Ever. That she brought it up so casually, in their view, made them distinctly perturbed.

Dagmar shrugged minutely and offered, "I didn't think it was wise to make any further preparations without running the whole thing by you."

Thoris nodded, thoughtful, but the flicking of his antennae gave away his irritation. Shral's expression gave nothing away, the aide as still and stoic as ever, but Dagmar got the strangest impression that he was… disturbed.

It occurred to her, briefly, that she may have done a little more than push her luck with such a request, and a moment of wild panic seized her. What if they were they angry with her? What if she had offended them? She had never meant to give serious offence – she just wanted to help her friend!

"The Vulcans would want you to have it done on their planet." Thoris stated, just a touch of irritation colouring his rasping, sibilant voice. "But you do not have my permission to leave Andoria."

Dismay seeped in, loosening the translator's straight shoulders into a sad slump. Her gaze dropped, feeling as though she'd let T'Lar and Varek down. True, she hadn't promised anything – they'd advised her not to, and she'd said she'd clear it with her boss- but… They had come to her to help because there wasn't really anyone else _to_ ask. Things like this weren't _really _discussed in Vulcan society, and even when they were it was under a great deal of duress. It was considered immensely private, and even Vulcan physicians had only recently become open to advancing their studies on the subject.

A touch of anger seeped in, then. Why? she asked herself. Why wasn't she allowed to do this for her friends? _Why_? It cost the Ambassador _nothing_!

…But that was not a useful way of thinking, was it? Ambassador Thoris had his reasons, whatever they may be. He was objective and rational, and not likely to allow past prejudices against Vulcans to interfere with his decisions. She knew that – she'd seen it a hundred times first-hand.

She had to trust in that objectivity.

Thoris noticed her disappointment, but said nothing. The translator did not have to like his decisions, but so long as she did not question them the hierarchy was maintained. Whether or not he understood the motivation behind her request was irrelevant; he might have held a trace of fondness for the strange Human female, but not so much that such an outlandish request could be permitted. He could not have a member of his personal staff flitting about between planets – the ministers wouldn't have it, and the Vulcans might take the opportunity to make an ungodly fuss over it.

Relations between Andoria and Vulcan were not so strong that there was no risk of damage of reneging upon agreements over even so small a matter and the Ambassador knew it.

"…Thank you, sir." The redheaded Human said after a moment, swallowing thickly. "I'm sorry for bothering you."

The Ambassador dismissed her with a wave of his hand, and Shral's gaze followed her out of the entirely-too-cold office.

Dagmar spent the rest of her shift in absolute silence, mechanically working through PADD after PADD of translations. She didn't even really notice what it was that she was translating, only that, suddenly, Thelus – the other translator she worked with- was patting her upper-arm.

That was a curious thing, the physical contact. Ever since she had "properly settled" (according to Thelus, at least) the other Andorians she worked with and around had been considerably more touchy-feely with her. They patted her arm to get her attention, touched her back or shoulder to indicate that she needed to move. One, who was apparently quite comfortable pretending she was Andorian, even went so far as to tap her hip or thigh whenever he wanted her to vacate a computer station. It wasn't anything sexual or invasive, like it might have been for Humans – that was one of the many non-verbal methods Andorians used to communicate- but it was surprising nonetheless.

Surprising, but… nice. It was nice to be included. There had been times when she had watched all of the Andorians around her interact with each other in such ways, and had always felt slightly saddened, like she was being left out.

"Yes?" She came out of her reverie, looking up from the PADD in her hand – the translations for which, according to the time-stamp, she had finished over two hours ago. Chagrin tinged her cheeks red and brought forth a grimace as she set the PADD down on the table with the others, her arm gone stiff from being held in one position for so long. "_Oh_. Oh, wow. I've been here for a while, haven't I?"

Thelus nodded and spoke in his familiar archaic dialect, "I noticed that your shift ended two hours ago. It is unusual for you to stay so late."

Dagmar flushed a further red –something which openly fascinated several of the Andorians she was acquainted with- and stood. "I'm sorry, I've had a lot on my mind…"

The Andorian translator simply nodded, antennae curved forwards in polite interest only. "Home is a better place for such thoughts."

Wordlessly, the Human woman smiled an awkward smile and gathered her things. As she walked home, only just remembering to put her mask on before exiting the building, Dagmar was once again lost in her thoughts, but one particular though stood out in particular.

What was she going to tell Varek and T'Lar?


	30. Lost In Translation

**THIRTY: Lost In Translation**

Dagmar didn't know how long she had been sitting on the edge of her bed – a low-bearing but raised bed in the Terran fashion, instead of the den of cushions, fabrics, and sometimes furs that Andorians often preferred- just staring at the comm. terminal in her bedroom. Probably a while, given the stiffness of her back and the way the spots just above her knees where her elbows rested had begun to hurt from an extended period of constant pressure.

She didn't know what to say.

Above all else, Dagmar desperately didn't want to disappoint her friend and mentor – but she couldn't do anything. She wasn't permitted to step off planet without losing her job, falling into disgrace and dishonour, and probably alienating all of her friends on Andoria.

It was scary how much those things mattered to her, after so many months on the frozen planet.

And that was the key to the whole dichotomy, wasn't it? What did she value more – her friendship with Varek, or her friendship with Thelen, and Shral, and – hell, even Thelus and Thoris, a little bit? …To say nothing of her tentative place in Andorian society, too. Varek and T'Lar, or everyone she cared about on Andoria?

The more objective side of her wondered if she was exaggerating the scale of the issue. It was entirely possible that Varek and T'Lar would understand her dilemma entirely, and would hold no grudge… But what if they didn't? What if the whole thing – the egg donation and all that- was really, really important to them?

She agonized for what felt like years, sitting in a rapidly darkening room as the lights cycled into the night-time setting – a technological necessity for an underground society, even if Andorian circadian rhythms were completely different from hers. She pondered and wondered and tormented herself with uncertainty. Logic did not help her – she did not have enough data.

A headache blossomed behind her eyes, a sharp stabbing pain that got worse the longer she thought about it.

Tomorrow, she put off, dropping her head into her heads with a defeated sigh.

Tomorrow.

She'd tell them tomorrow.

With a groan as her muscles protested, stiff and decidedly unhappy with her, Dagmar stood and staggered over to the kitchen unit in search of something to drink. Ideally something with a very high alcohol content…

Just as Dagmar had located a bottle of familiar blue ale, the Andorian equivalent of a door-bell rang, a muted chirp echoing through the otherwise silent home.

Dagmar glanced uncertainly at a nearby time-device, having to take a moment to translate the Andorian characters into something comprehensible because of her fatigue. It was late. Very late. Dagmar couldn't think of too many people who would bother her past midnight . Then again, Andorians had shorter sleep cycles than Humans, so perhaps the time was not so odd?

Cautiously – she wasn't stupid- Dagmar approached the door and activated the small terminal and touch pad beside the front door. A few quiet beeps later, and the Human translator accessed the security camera. She was surprised (and, frankly, a bit puzzled) when she saw Shral on the other side of the door. He was carrying a box of some sort. It was brightly coloured –orange and green and yellow- and almost looked like some kind of gift box.

What the devil was Shral doing there? Perhaps, the redhead thought with a frown and no small amount of chagrin, he was reacting to her comment from a little while back about never visiting.

Suddenly, she felt pretty bad about saying all of that.

Wiping the frown from her face –it wouldn't do to greet a friend like that- Dagmar pressed the appropriate keys on the pad to unlock and open the door.

"Hello," She greeted, offering a smile that was mostly friendly and just a tad uncertain.

"Dagmar," Shral nodded in greeting, his antennae pointing at her in that familiar, vaguely disconcerting way. Whatever the gesture meant, Dagmar was honestly too tired to wonder about it for the umpteenth time. "May I enter?"

"Of course," Dagmar acquiesced readily enough, moving to the side and fighting to suppress a yawn as Shral stepped into her home.

Dagmar closed and locked the doors behind Shral almost automatically – even in this supposedly safer age, she didn't trust the world enough to sleep with unlocked doors or windows. It seemed too much like tempting fate, even if several of her fellow students and colleagues assured her that it was perfectly safe. In most areas, at least. Shral noticed, but did not comment, turning to face her and presenting the brightly coloured box to her.

Brow furrowing, Dagmar tentatively took the box – small, square, shallow in depth- from the aide's hands, her fingers brushing against his accidentally. Looking from the box to the aide curiously, the translator asked, "What's this?"

"A gift." Shral answered, as if that should have been obvious. Perhaps it was, Dagmar admitted, but that did not explain the motive behind it. "It is a Terran custom to give "house-warming" gifts upon one's first visit to a person's new home, is it not?"

I'll be damned, she thought wryly. Out loud, the redhead thanked the Andorian aide with a tired, but genuine, smile, and there was warmth in her voice as she did so. "Thank you, Shral. That's very kind of you."

Shral seemed pleased with her response. Belatedly, Dagmar realized she had yet to offer the customary hospitalities. "Oh! May I offer you something to eat or drink? I was just about to open a bottle of ale."

"Ale is fine."

Dagmar set the box down on the kitchen counter as she passed it, withdrawing the very same bottle she'd been after before from what she referred to as her Alcohol Cupboard. She had a couple bottles of ale, a bottle of a pale, thin blue drink with an oily-yellow sheen to it that was like a bitter whiskey, and the Andorian equivalent of a particularly sweet sort of rum – a dark and murky liquid with the consistency if thick syrup and the potency of about a case of Terran rum in a single bottle. Needless to say the Human translator expected the bottles to last for quite a while.

She set two glasses on the counter next to the box and opened the tall glass bottle. Or, rather, she tried to. The caps were always stiff, and the Human woman usually couldn't open one without an accompanying monologue riddled with no small amount of cursing. That was probably why she didn't drink much on Andoria, aside from the potency of Andorian liquor – the bottles were pretty damned difficult for the average Human to open.

It was after her third attempt that Dagmar eventually sighed. She was about to turn to Shral and make a joke about the whole thing, if only to pass off her embarrassment, when the bottle was suddenly plucked from her hands from behind. Startled, Dagmar turned and found that Shral had come up beside her while she'd been distracted.

The bottle came open easily with a crack and a hiss, and Shral offered a faint, vaguely condescending razor-thin smile.

"Oh, shoosh." Dagmar mumbled, not quite able to keep the snarky tone out of her voice as she swiped the bottle back from the tall Andorian and pouring them both three fingers of ale. She paused for a moment, the bottle tilted in her hand, and then added a fourth finger on a whim.

Accepting a glass from her with a polite nod, the aide gestured to the box on the counter and inquired, "Will you not open it?"

Dagmar smiled. "Sure."

The box contained a tray of familiar delicate pastries – _shev'tak_- and a few that she did not recognize, which contained darker custards or appeared to have something sprinkled on top of the tiny desserts.

Astute as ever, Shral explained, "The ones you do not recognize are variations of the traditional recipe; one is flavoured with _katheka_, and the other uses Terran cloves."

Dagmar nodded, intrigued. She hadn't been aware that trade exports between Earth and Andoria had progressed far enough along for Terran spices to be available on the Andorian market; last she'd heard, both parties were still nattering and bickering about tariffs.

"I had thought you might still be fond of shev'tak, despite…" Shral trailed off, verdant eyes and antenna drifting to the side as he remembered the events which had prompted her exodus from Earth. Dagmar pre-emptively grimaced, not wishing to be reminded of the tabloids and the public humiliation. Shral caught the look before she could mask it, and offered with a vaguely apologetic look, "…I suppose it does not need to be said."

Dagmar offered a smile in response, slightly strained in the wake of the grimace but genuine nonetheless. With a touch of humour creeping into her voice, she conceded, "I still like them – I just don't miss the fuss that came after."

"Understandable."

This was nice, Dagmar thought to herself as a comfortable silence settled over them, each nursing their ale. Peaceful. Quiet._ Not awkward_.

Blue eyes glanced up at the pointed antenna and amended that – not _completely_ awkward.

"You were disappointed with the Ambassador's decision." Shral stated suddenly, and Dagmar wondered if he had been mulling over the idea for a while; he had that look about him. "Why?"

The redheaded translator sighed, leaning against the counter. She wasn't sure how to explain. "Because… They came to me for help."

Shral's antennae wiggled in confusion. "A request is not an obligation."

Dagmar shook her head. "You don't understand. They didn't ask anyone else – so they came to _me._ The whole infertility thing is awkward for Vulcans,too, you know. It's not taboo, like it is here, but it's not something you go see a physician about unless you've already found a solution. And, from what little I know of Human genetics and recent developments in that area, a Human stem cell such as an egg would be perfect for their needs."

The tall, green-eyed aide seemed to ponder that for several long moments, nursing his ale almost absent-mindedly as he thought.

At length, Shral asked a rather interesting question. "You understand that you were forbidden to have the procedure done on Vulcan?"

"Yes," Dagmar agreed, openly frustrated and caught between duty and friendship. She passed a hand over her face, feeling the fatigue and her earlier headache returning in full force. "And I don't know how to tell them! They're going to be so disappointed in me."

"They're Vulcan." Shral stated flatly.

"Then they'll be Vulcanly disappointed!" Dagmar retorted angrily without even thinking, and, internally, she was almost surprised at how upset she was becoming.

Shral raised an eyebrow, and flicked his antennae. His voice was low, calm, and just faintly disapproving. "_Vulcanly_ is not a word, and you are not _listening_."

Dagmar raised her head from her hand and looked at Shral with narrowed eyes. "Well, what more is there to listen to? I'm not _allowed _to help my friends!"

The Human woman didn't know if she should have been insulted or not when Shral glanced at the ceiling in a universal gesture of exasperation. Setting his ale down on the counter, the Andorian settled his hands on her shoulders, looked her directly in the eye, and spoke very slowly. "You are not permitted to have the procedure done _on Vulcan_."

Dagmar blinked, and it took a long moment for the anger to fade enough for comprehension to dawn. In the wake of understanding, Dagmar felt incredibly stupid.

"_Oh_."

"_Yes_," Shral agreed emphatically, looking vaguely relieved. His antennae curved together in mild amusement. "Your work as a translator is flawless, but you have a remarkable inability to _listen_."

Dagmar felt extremely foolish. Beyond foolish, even. She'd spent _hours_ agonizing over something that was completely unnecessary! Hours! She _could_ still help Varek and T'Lar, but just not on Vulcan – the procedure would have to be done here on Andoria. She'd gotten all worked up about absolutely _nothing_!

"I'm a moron." The redhead lamented, equal parts relied and self-depreciating humour as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "I am a total and absolute _moron_."

All she had to do was to figure out how to get the extracted ova from point A to point B. How hard could that be?

"Such a moron." Dagmar reiterated for good measure, shaking her head.

The aide scoffed and, retrieving his drink, snagged her elbow, guiding the pair of them over to the couch she'd woken up on that very morning with Thelen. Dagmar grabbed the now-open box of Andorian pastries as they went by. "No, but you do not always pay attention to what is said _and _what is meant."

After a moment, the aide added ruefully, "And even less to what _is not_ said."

Dagmar had no idea what that was supposed to mean. That wasn't even sarcastic. She had no idea what he was referring to. "Sorry?"

Shral shook his head and smiled a razor thin smile.


	31. Paradoxical

**THIRTY-ONE: Paradoxical**

Waking up to someone else's breathing never failed to disconcert Dagmar. Mostly, it was a cultural thing – Humans didn't really do the cuddle pile gig- but it was also rather disorienting… to say nothing of how alarming it was. She had gotten used to it, on the transport ship and in the Embassy on Earth, but since she had arrived on Andoria, well, living by herself had re-settled her into old habits (and, in some ways, older comfort zones, as well.)

Fighting past the initial moment of alarm, Dagmar recalled the previous evening. She and Shral had finished the bottle of ale and… she must have fallen asleep at some point, but the redheaded woman at no point remembered moving into the bedroom. Shral must have moved her – Dagmar raised her head from the pillow just enough to twist around and confirm that theory.

The view was surprising. Usually, Thelen was rather liberal with the Andorian idea of personal space (rather, the lack thereof) and showed no hesitance in making physical contact with her. More often than not, she woke up on the couch after an evening of movies and ale with the still-sleeping security officer practically draped over her. Whenever they actually bothered to bring in blankets or anything of the sort, Thelen –with the strange practicality that nearly all Andorians possessed- deemed her domicile entirely too warm; since the blankets were brought in with all parties' comfort in mind and Thelen was uncomfortable as a result of the blankets, clearly clothing was what needed to disappear.

Spirits, had _that_ been awkward the first time that had happened. Thelen had not understood – even now, there were huge barriers between Humans and Andorians, in a thousand tiny ways- and she had been too embarrassed to find the words to explain her discomfort. It was one thing when she was with a group of Andorians, but one on one seemed… dangerously intimate. She was extremely fond of Thelen, very much so, but that did not leave her with the overwhelming desire to see Andorian in his birthday suit all day every day.

Needless to say, Dagmar stopped offering blankets after the third incident – a decision which suited Thelen just fine. It was less awkward when she didn't do things that brought up cultural incompatibilities.

Shral, on the other hand, had done something rather interesting. He'd piled every single blanket on the bed onto her, or at least almost had, and had chosen to not only sleep in full uniform, but had done so _on top_ of the aforementioned blankets – and well out of range for any sort of physical contact. His back was to her, and his breathing was slow and even. His white hair, normally slicked back away from his face, was dishevelled.

It was… considerate. Extremely so. Thelen and many others had grown comfortable enough with her to forget her 'idiosyncracies' and her Human quirks. It was not carelessness or callousness on their part – Dagmar enjoyed the familiarity and comfort- but sometimes she wished they would remember that there were certain Andorian customs which alarmed and confused her, or that she would probably never quite understand the things they thought were hilarious.

Shral remembered, apparently. He remembered that she didn't do well in the cold, and he had taken the time to research a Human custom or two to make her more comfortable, and, despite their infrequent encounters, he seemed to take what he knew of her preferences into account for some things. The _shev'tak_, for example – a risky move on his part, as she could easily have been offended or upset by the gift, despite the kind intent.

It took a moment of flailing under the piles of blankets, but Dagmar eventually freed one of her arms and reached for Shral. When she pat his arm lightly, he did not start, as one newly awoken might have, but rolled slightly into the curve of her hand. Dagmar wondered how long he'd been awake, shuffling some of the blankets off to one side so that she could wiggle closer.

"Hey," She mumbled, squeezing the hard curve of his bicep lightly before withdrawing her hand into the cocoon of blankets. She squirmed closer, so she didn't have to speak too much louder than a whisper. That quiet atmosphere had settled in the room, like before in front of the clinic, and she was loath to break it. "Thank you."

"It was no trouble." Shral murmured, eyes half-lidded and droopy, but verdant green eyes surprisingly alert. He rolled over to face her, and she watched his eyes trail over her face. What he was looking for, she wasn't sure.

"Been awake long?" She asked tiredly, raising a hand to rub at her eyes. They felt crusty at the corners, and still blurry from sleep. Shral offered a drowsy shrug with his antenna and blinked slowly; a weird sort of gesture which Dagmar usually interpreted as meaning "It's a small matter" or "It means little" in most situations. She had witnessed the gesture a few times, from a few different individuals – usually when she inquired about something Andorians considered trifling and Humans considered somewhat important – like philosophy.

Andorians, it turned out, didn't really like talking about philosophy amongst themselves.

They liked the Terran version of it even less.

Frowning, the redheaded translator said, "You know, if you wake up before me you can go get food from the kitchen or whatever. I sleep longer than you will even on a good day – you don't have to hang around and be bored."

"I was not bored." Shral refuted simply, his voice low and soft and sibilant like all Andorians. "I accomplished a great deal of thinking – more than I usually have time for."

A mild form of chagrin, then. "I didn't interrupt any really important thought-processes, did I?"

An almost-smile, razor thin around sharp teeth, and the calf-eyed smile that Dagmar was honestly beginning to love seeing on her Andorian friends – particularly her two closest friends- answered her. A cool, calloused blue hand, long-fingered and steady, reached up to brush against the side of her face gently before withdrawing.

Andorian affection never failed to make her feel warm and fuzzy inside – until she remembered that it did not mean what her instincts told her it _should_ mean, and that all the pats and hugs in the world wouldn't change the fact that she was alone. She had friends – good friends, best friends- but sometimes a friend was not enough.

Sometimes, she considered investigating the Andorian idea of playmates, with the half-serious notion that it might ease some of that loneliness. Those moments never lasted long – wishful thinking aside, Dagmar knew what was and what was not in her nature.

It was better not to contemplate such things for too long – it just made her sad. The Terran woman had had enough sadness to last several lifetimes as it was. To add more to that tally... No, it was best to simply avoid thinking about it.

"No." Shral answered her question, still smiling. "And I would not have minded even if you had."

Some small part of Dagmar muttered that she had to stop having all of these bizarrely domestic scenes with Thelen and Shral – it was starting to get a little strange. A larger part of her, however, found peace in such moments, and a sense of belonging that she had not really felt in years. Even when she got things wrong, she felt… at home, almost. She felt like Andoria could become her home, could fill the space left by the loss of the Earth she had known. Oh, not completely – never completely- but maybe… maybe just enough.

She didn't want to leave the icy planet, with its strange flora and stranger fauna – with its warlike people and their highly ritualized ways. She didn't want to ever have to leave, for any reason. Despite her misgivings, and despite her blunders, she was home.

And she was, the Terran woman realized with a start. She really was _home_.

It was definitely not the home she expected to find in this strange new age, or even one that she could have reasonably predicted finding, but it was enough. More than enough, even.

The translator hadn't even noticed the bright, beaming smile had made its way onto her face, or even the twin tracks of tears that ran sideways down her face, across her nose and down onto the pillow –not until Shral made a noise of inquiry. She sobbed, abruptly, and another wave of tears followed their predecessors' trails.

Shral rose onto one elbow, looming above to examine her face with some concern, and calloused fingertips brushed at the wet tracks of tears. His antenna writhed in confusion and alarm, the calf-eyed smile in his eyes long gone. "What caused this? There is no reason to be sad now."

Dagmar shook her head, still smiling so widely that it was painful, and sobbed, "I'm _happy_."

Spirits! _Again_ with the crying, Dagmar raged internally! Did she have no control over her own emotions?

This confused Shral further, if the writhing of his antennae was any indication, but for the life of her, Dagmar couldn't stop _crying_. She didn't understand it herself – she was _happy_, happier than she'd been for a long time, but the waterworks wouldn't shut off! What was she supposed to do with that? Keep crying? Stop crying? What?

"I'm happy," She sobbed again, though Shral seemed dubious and rather unconvinced. "I can't stop crying – but I'm not sad, I promise!"

Shral just looked at her as if she'd gone completely mad. After a long moment, the Andorian delicately inquired if this was a normal reaction to extreme happiness – possibly wondering if she needed to see whatever the Andorian version of a psychiatrist was all the while. The aide didn't bother to hide his relief when she nodded yes, and went on to explain, between uncontrollable sobs, that emotional overloads often led to crying, happy or sad.

She curled closer, on the simple instinct to draw comfort from anyone nearby, and continued to smile like the happiest person in the world while she sobbed like the most miserable one.

Such strange quirks, Shral thought to himself. Humans were far more conflicting than he had originally believed. They performed sad gestures when they were happy – what an idea! Andorians were not so convoluted in what they felt; if one was happy, he was very happy and friendly to everyone, and if one was sad, he retreated to some place of solitude and grieved. One was never mixed with another, even under the strangest of circumstances.

How very strange…

In the dark of the room, the Andorian aide offered an uncertain Human smile, and reached over to rub Dagmar's upper arm. He and others on the Ambassador's staff had witnessed similar gestures amongst Humans when they comforted one another, though the holovids had been unclear as to which forms of comfort were acceptable for which types of relationships and for which degree of closeness within that relationship. The mildest form seemed to be rubbing the upper arms, or touching the shoulders carefully. Touching the hand of a distressed Human seemed to have conflicting meanings, and appeared to be a very forward and alarming gesture at times; the holovids had not explained that, either.

The gesture seemed to have the calming effects advertised, and so Shral continued. Andorians often used touch to convey and comfort, and found great satisfaction and relaxation in doing so; he wondered if Humans would not be more united if they did as Andorians, sometimes, before dismissing the idea altogether. Andorians were Andorians and Humans were Humans – one could not abandon themselves and become another. Humans would do as they were meant to do, and so would Andorians.

Though, perhaps, the green-eyed Andorian amended as he looked upon his Ambassador's translator, there might be exceptions.

It was not long before Dagmar recovered herself, much to Shral's relief, and, tentatively, the aide asked what she had been so terribly happy about to provoke such a reaction. He had been disturbed to see such a sad reaction, but if was caused by happiness, then perhaps there was a way to replicate it.

The redheaded woman did not appear to mind that he continued the soothing gesture, light-fingered and soft over the bare skin of her arm. Indeed, she didn't appear to mind even when he expanded the range of the gesture to the curve of her shoulder and the full length of her arm, until the gesture became a light tracing of muscle groups and the hard lines of bones. He felt the fine hairs of her forearm, thin and not as dark as the hair on her head, the pointed curve of her elbow, and the firm curve of muscles in her upper arm, soft and unmarred but for a few faint scars on the outside of her forearm, barely even noticeable under the pads of his fingertips. He felt the steady flutter of her heartbeat at the inside of her wrist, and again just under her collar bone where it met the ball joint of her shoulder. This he did not consider invasive, because it was not – neither in nature nor intention. He intended to comfort, and comfort he did. Moreover, he was curious, though not about any particular thing, so he satisfied that as well.

If he had caused harm or discomfort, then that would have been another matter entirely – something well beyond forgiveness- but he had not and therefore it was not.

"I realized," the Human woman said with a small, half-sobbing laugh as she sniffed and wiped her damp face with the heel of her palm. "I realized that I'm _home_."

Shral hummed quietly, inexplicably pleased by this, and ceased his exploration to squeeze her shoulder and lean close. His forehead touched hers, lightly, and she swore she felt his antennae brush her over her hair, and the aide whispered conspiratorially, as if to share some great secret, "We Andorians have known this for some time – we have just been waiting for you to realize it, too."

Dagmar smiled again, tiredly and not quite as bright before, though still as genuine. There was a flicker of uncertainty in her expression, quickly suppressed and replaced with a calmer set to her alien features.

After a long moment, with a sharp pang of realization that she could not know the gesture for what it had been, Shral shifted away and settled once more onto his side. He did not know the Human equivalent of the gesture, or if there even was one, and his mood took on a note of remorse. He might consult with Thelen, who claimed to be a very close friend of the Terran female, but the forwardness of the act, so very counter-intuitive to their own culture, might give cause for offense.

He had no wish for strife between himself and the security officer – and strife was a distinct possibility. Thelen had quietly and discreetly dealt with several such offenders who had given insult to the Terran translator, or who had presumed too much; the younger Andorian was gaining a reputation as a loyal and all but ruthless friend to the female, though the source of such loyalty was often contested.

Shral knew better than to assume that they two were playmates. Dagmar did not even fully understand the meaning of such an arrangement and was too cautious and conservative about such things (as were many Humans, it had been noted, and this was not considered a terrible flaw) and Thelen was not one to take advantage of someone so ill-informed. To do so would be underhanded at best – dishonourable at worst.

The possibility of a bond was unthinkable – though, he admitted to himself, perhaps not for the most logical reasons. Whatever the case, it did not bear thinking about.

…More research would be required, that much was evident, but perhaps speaking too directly with Thelen would be unwise. Much depended upon circumstance and interpretation.

Even though Dagmar shifted closer, until she was all but curled at his side, as she drifted into a light doze, Shral spent the rest of the night cycle mourning the things lost in translation. He thought of the gestures given and received, and wondered if any of their meanings had gotten across the gap between his species and hers.

But perhaps it was enough – to be present with her, as they were then, to be allowed so close and to be so highly regarded and trusted. Perhaps it was enough to have the knowledge that only one other was so closely kept, and so well regarded.

Dagmar shivered, in her sleep, the flesh of her exposed arms retracting slightly in an effort to conserve heat – leaving something Humans called "goose-bumps" in its wake. Frowning, the aide drew a heavy blanket over the Human, until the hem rested just below her chin. It had been foolish of her to shake off so many blankets; Humans were too susceptible to the cold for that. Did she have no care for her own health?

"You don't have to stay and look after me like that," The woman murmured, apparently not as far off into a sleeping state as he had believed, despite her slow and even breathing. "You can go do stuff."

He shook his head, though her eyes were closed and she could not see the movement, and answered simply, "I will stay, Dagmar."

She lifted her arm, and the pile of blankets over top of her, and mumbled drowsily, "Share, then?"

He would be too warm under such a pile, Shral knew, even as he shifted closer and tried not to react too obviously surprised when an arm slipped around his mid-section. Hesitantly, he settled an arm above the layers of blankets and sheets and heavy quilts, resting over where he assumed her waist was, and prepared for a long and somewhat overheated wait until the redheaded female fully awoke.

While it was not what he had envisioned, subconsciously, as he had made such an uncharacteristically forward gesture not half an hour ago… it was, perhaps, enough.


	32. Observation

**THIRTY-TWO: Observation**

Shral awoke from a light doze to the quiet murmur of his Terran host in the background, beyond the bedroom doors. The pile of blankets and sheets which had served to keep her warm in the night was twisted and appeared to have been kicked partially off of the edge of the Terran-style bed. It was odd, sleeping on a raised platform and not in the more den-like beds he was familiar with – several times, he had awoken with a start, having nearly rolled off the edge of the mattress in his sleep. It had not been a pleasant feeling.

Intrigued by the noise emanating from the common area of Dagmar's home, Shral rolled onto his feet and, straightening his sleep-rumpled clothes, went to investigate.

As the doors which led from the dark bedroom slid open, light and sound –music- filtered in. It was a slow, elegant piece, lacking words or any vocalization. A waltz, he thought, though Terran music was somewhat different from that of Andoria. His host had several PADDs spread out across the counter, and she leaned over them, one arm braced against the counter and the other holding a mug of what smelled like _katheka_ to her lips. Her eyes, a bright and attractive blue, darted this way that, and despite the mug before her lips, she did not drink – silently mouthing the sections she appeared to have difficulty translating until they made sense. The high ponytail which she had drawn her hair into swayed with the smallest movements of her head, like a strange pendulum.

She worked at a rapid pace, but he saw that she was also thorough, and frequently referenced older, completed works to ensure continuity in her translations and to correct any errors. Pale fingers tapped periodically at the devices splayed before her, inputting this and deleting that. At length, her arm seemed to grow tired from holding up the mug of untouched and rapidly cooling _katheka_, and she set the mug aside, on a precarious perch near the edge of the counter-top.

He had never witnessed her work in her element before, when she was not present during meetings which required active translations; he was fascinated. As she did not appear to have noticed the doors to her room open and close before and after him, he leaned against a nearby wall, close to the Human, and observed her. He stood at the very edges of her peripheral vision, and folded his arms comfortably, antennae pointed forwards and green eyes attentive.

He watched the way she worked, the focus in her eyes and body language, until he grew bored and simply observed her body – the curve of her waist, of the small of her back, the strength of her long legs and the frame of her shoulders, and the set of her jaw. He had observed the Human woman before, on dozens of occasions, but never with so much leisure. He noted scars and other small marks which he had not detected before, small and nearly invisible from age and proper tending.

Strange, that he had not noticed such things before, in closer and more intimate moments.

After a time, the green-eyed Andorian stepped into Dagmar's peripheral vision properly, the movement attracting her attention, and he greeted her with a murmured hello and the familiar press of his palm against hers. She seemed to enjoy the familiarity, as he did, so he saw no reason to cease engaging in it; she always smiled warmly when she saw his proffered hand, and he was not so unobservant as to fail to notice that she reacted more warmly to his greeting than to Thelen's.

No, she and Thelen were not playmates. The two were very close, yes, but not in that particular fashion.

"Morning," The Human female greeted, curling her fingers between his as she pressed her pale palm to his healthy blue one. "Did you sleep well?"

It was a variation of the traditional gesture, but the act did not cause him to bristle as it might have some of his elders. That a Human was performing the gesture at all was a deviation from tradition as well, and the alteration she had made suited the situation… though, he once again lamented, she did not understand the full implications.

"I did. Yourself?" The niceties, for once, did not feel like niceties; it was a novel feeling for the aide.

Dagmar smiled a Human smile, revealing teeth which were not as sharp as his or any other Andorians, but healthy nonetheless. "I did, actually. It's surprisingly nice to have company."

A Human male, no doubt, might have misinterpreted the statement, but Shral did not. He took the statement for what it was – an expression of gratitude for simple comfort offered and given, but not at all an invitation for anything further.

Shral did not miss the faint relief on her face as she realized that her phrasing had not been misconstrued, even as the woman turned away and began to flit about the kitchen in search of food like the very red bat she had once, inelegantly, been compared to. Amusement curved his antennae as he watched; it was plain to see that Dagmar was not used to Andorian cooking, or the Andorian style of kitchens, which did not have many of the Human appliances she was familiar with. After a beat, the only Andorian present took pity on her, breaking with tradition just once to help her in making their morning meal; the hosts served the guests, under normal circumstances.

Left to her own devices, however, he wasn't sure she could reliably serve anything other than _katheka _or possibly _fridd_ on a good day.

* * *

><p>Sorry for the delay in updating guys! It's been crazy busy on my end of things, but it's all starting to settle down now! Thank you to everyone who reviewed and poked and prodded me until I updated!<p> 


	33. Appointment

**THIRTY-THREE: Appointment**

"Look! A pink-skin!"

The voice was that of a young child, possibly female but Dagmar wasn't certain. Frowning, the translator turned around to locate the source of the exclamation in the sparse crowd of Andorians. Dagmar was on her way to consult a physician regarding Varek and T'Lar's problem, since it was her day off and she had nothing better to do.

Said source turned out to be, as Dagmar had assumed, a young female child – not even grown into her own antenna, as Thelen would probably say- in the company of an older sibling, from the looks of it. She had yellow-green eyes, clear and bright, and wild hair. Her brother, two heads taller and solemn-looking, was quick scold his sibling for being rude, antenna flicking. The pair was only a dozen feet away, and elder of the two made a gesture of apology.

Dagmar waved the apology aside, offering a smile and approaching.

"It's quite alright." Dagmar assured the elder, kneeling once she had gotten within a reasonable distance. She was always careful to give Andorian children a certain amount of space – children were precious to Andorians, and their parents quick to eliminate any perceived threats. To the little girl, Dagmar offered, "The correct term is Human, or sometimes Terran. Am I the first one you've seen?"

The girl flushed purple, and her antennae were upright with her alarm and embarrassment. The boy looked uncomfortable and a little embarrassed as well. Dagmar saw four adults in her peripheral vision, in flanking positions, and made a point of keeping both of her hands visible and harmlessly resting on her knees.

After a long moment, the little girl nodded.

"I don't bite or anything – you're allowed to talk to me." The translator offered after a moment. Children weren't her specialty, but after dealing with Tellerites for weeks on end, Dagmar figured they couldn't be that bad. "Let's try this again. _Thiptho lapth. _My name is Dagmar Gunnarssen; I work for Ambassador Thoris as a translator."

"Igrilan." The boy offered formally, seeing an opportunity to take control of the situation his sister had caused. "Of Clan Tha'an. I greet you, blood of Gunnarssen."

"I greet you, blood of Tha'an." Dagmar murmured in acknowledgement with a nod. Tha'an was a middling Clan, as she understood it – lots of connections, but neither powerful nor without influence. A Tha'an clansman was a good friend to have, in most circles.

"My sister is Liz'el. She is – we have not seen a Human before. "

Dagmar smiled and nodded to the girl as well. The figures in the translator's peripheral vision hadn't moved. That was a good sign, at least; the chances of impending broken bones or other grievous harm were going down with every passing minute!

A lot of Andorians hadn't encountered Humans face-to-face. Word of Humans – their descriptions, details on Andoria-Earth politics, and such- had reached the population, but seeing a Human on their home planet was still rather novel. The fact that the term 'pink-skin' was getting around so fast was irritating, but Dagmar found herself oddly unbothered by the phenomenon.

"It was a pleasure to meet you," Dagmar offered after a moment of allowing the two to observe her with open curiosity. "But I'm afraid that I will be late for an appointment if I linger much longer. Goodbye, Igrilan and Liz'el of Clan Tha'an."

Rising, Dagmar executed a polite bow – not as deep as she would have given the head of their Clan, but very polite nonetheless.

The two siblings returned the gesture, and as Dagmar turned away from them, she caught the gazes of their parents. All four of them. Dagmar executed another bow, directed at the adults – three of whom were members of the Imperial Guard, and one of whom was a civilian of high rank, from the ornamentation she wore on her antennae and clothing- and murmured the appropriate greetings.

Amazingly, the greetings were returned. Dagmar felt her eyebrows rise in surprise, unable to smother her expression for a moment in her shock.

She forgot, sometimes, that she was considered the leader of her own Clan by Andorians. By some Andorians, she amended… not every Andorian greeted her as such. Maybe they didn't know. Maybe they didn't care. Maybe it was deliberate.

There were too many maybes for her already, Dagmar sighed inwardly. She could only deal with so much uncertainty at a time; for now, she had an appointment to get to.

* * *

><p>The appointment… well, Dagmar wouldn't say it had gone well, but it hadn't been a disaster either.<p>

The Andorian physician had been suspicious and very reluctant to even discuss the possibility of extracting several ova from her. The battle, verbal though it was, had been uphill from the very beginning. The doctor had, understandably, had many questions – some of which were rather invasive and others which were merely dubious. Andorians had no such procedures in their history of medical innovations; not only was the concept new and a little alarming, but even discussing it came dangerously close to some very strong cultural taboos.

To be honest, Dagmar had half-expected to be thrown out of the clinic.

Instead, Dagmar found herself leaving Dr. Phlox's contact information as well as details on how the Andorian might acquire documents and further data on Human physiology… all the while, being frowned at by the doctor in question. He wasn't pleased, but her arguments had been both logical and very persuasive.

One of the odd quirks Dagmar had picked up in being a translator was that she could be very, very persuasive if she wanted to be. Something about having a strong grasp of multiple languages and cultural tendencies, she supposed.

"_If_ this mad idea of yours is feasible," The doctor was saying, antenna flicking and voice curt. "You will be contacted for another appointment. _If_ I can stomach the subject again."

Dagmar made a point of bowing with more respect and deference than was strictly necessary when she left, and as she tugged her mask and visor on before stepping out into the cold street, Dagmar wondered why her hands were shaking.

Nerves, the translator told herself firmly. Just nerves… but that didn't explain the odd sinking feeling she felt settling in her belly.

Dagmar prayed to whichever Spirits watched over Andoria that the foreboding in her gut wasn't a sign, and headed home.


	34. Opine

**THIRTY-FOUR: Opine**

If Thelen had one flaw, it was that he worried.

Constantly.

He worried about Dagmar wandering around in abandoned tunnels, where anything from a misplaced boot to a wild beast could kill her. He worried about Dagmar doing something daft and dying from the cold (and, oh, how horrified he had been when he had learned how fragile Humans were in _that_ respect, too.) He worried about Dagmar doing something stupid and breaking her fragile bones, which didn't splinter like Andorian bones but could still shear and puncture organs and blood vessels, or destroy delicate nerves. He worried about Dagmar doing something really, spectacularly stupid and dying in an _ushaan_ duel. He worried about Dagmar and Vilashral.

Yes, he knew. Or at least, he knew Shral's side of it.

Thelen doubted the aide meant the Human woman harm, but the daft thing had no Clan to defend her honour, and she knew little about the complexities of Andorian relationships and… well, Thelen felt obligated to look out for the Terran. It had been bad enough, seeing how her own kind treated her – how she was little more than tolerated by most- but to see such a thing amongst his own people for yet another thing that was not her fault…

So, Thelen sharpened the serrated edges of his _ushaan-tor_. He had fended off the presumptuous and the leering low-castes already, who watched her path home too closely or stared for too long. No formal duels had been declared, but Thelen liked to be prepared. He was a Security Officer for a reason, after all; preparing for the worst was what he specialized in.

Jealousy wasn't a factor... Largely because there wasn't anything to be jealous of. He would fight on Dagmar's behalf, untrained as she was, and he would keep an eye on her, but his interest in her was surprisingly plain that way. Surprisingly, because Thelen was not known for being conservative with his potential playmates (though, to be honest, not many Andorians were.) He could cohabitate with her comfortable, certainly, and he was fond of the translator, but there was something lacking in his relationship with the Terran woman, something key to lust or romantic affections.

Even if that were not a factor, Thelen honestly wasn't sure if Terrans were physically compatible with Andorians.

For Shral's sake, Thelen hoped so; poor bastard was probably going to lose his mind otherwise.

Vilashral was not a bad sort, Thelen considered after a long moment of observing the aide at work from his post at the Ambassador's doorway. But he was… odd. The Security Officer had a few suspicions about the aide in question, particularly when it came to some of the re-con tech Shral had access to… but if Thelen's suspicions were true, the less he poked and prodded about, the safer things were for everyone involved.

Even Dagmar.

Therein lay the dilemma, of course. If Shral was what Thelen thought he was, then very few people would be safer than Dagmar… or, alternatively, in more danger, though not from Shral himself.

The lieutenant suppressed a sigh, antennae flicking slightly despite his best efforts. The affection between the translator and the aide was blatantly obvious to anyone who had taken the time to observe Humans. Even those who hadn't observed their Terran allies so closely could probably tell.

But Humans were funny. They didn't court like Andorians did. They didn't have the antennae for it.

It would be easy enough, for Thelen to simply ask Dagmar how Humans did things, and then for him to tell Shral… The aide would certainly value the information, after all.

But Thelen couldn't quite bring himself to, and that puzzled him. Perhaps he felt that they needed to sort things out themselves. Perhaps some part of him protested at the thought of their joining. Perhaps he simply didn't want Dagmar to be in any more danger than what she naturally got herself into. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Ultimately, it did not matter. Thelen would continue to tend to his weapons, just as he would continue to watch over the wayward translator amongst his people, and he would simply wait.

And prepare for the worst.


	35. Precaution

THIRTY-FIVE: Precaution

"This is utter madness." The doctor repeated with a mix of disbelief and disgust for the umpteenth time, even as he prepared the modified hypospray and double-checked the dosage.

"I'm a _very_ good friend." Dagmar repeated patiently, also for the umpteenth time. Her hands were clasped loosely in her lap, her legs swinging idly as she waited patiently on the examination table.

"Barbaric. Are we back in your Terran Dark Ages? Shall I perform surgeries with shoddy metal scalpels now? Use a club over the head for anaesthetic?"

"Still being a good friend."

Dagmar was in the middle of the hormone treatment necessary for donating fertile ova. She wasn't too clear on how the process went back in her time, having never done anything of the sort then, but the newer technique seemed to involve gradually increasing certain hormones, resulting in the hyper-stimulation of her ovaries and an increased production of eggs, or so it had been explained. The effect was more or less like creating a false menopause of sorts, followed by ramping up her egg production (and fertility, by association) and then the final stage would involve triggering ovulation, during which the matured eggs could be harvested.

A few more injections, and Dagmar would be ready for the final part of the process. It was equal parts exciting and terrifying. In the past, needles had been used to extract ova, and from what Dagmar had gathered that part of the process hadn't changed much.

The physician assigned to her particular case found the entire affair mortifying and barbaric. The two nurses brought in to assist him had been all but sworn to secrecy, though Dagmar wasn't entirely sure either of the females would have spoken of the matter voluntarily anyway. Most of the visits had involved everyone staring in different directions and clearing their throats awkwardly.

As the hypo-spray was pressed against her neck none-too-gently, one of the nurses delicately inquired, "Have your symptoms worsened?"

By symptoms, the nurse meant hot-flashes, mood swings, some slight bloating, pain in the general area of her ovaries, near-constant headaches, and infrequent insomnia.

"The headaches are getting worse, and I'm still experiencing some pain and tenderness." Dagmar reported, as coolly and professionally as she could. That sort of demeanour seemed to help make things less awkward. "My sleep schedule is still all over the place, but I'm coping. Beyond that, I haven't noticed anything else."

The doctor was recalibrating a scanner to handle her human physiology as the translator spoke. The scanner beeped and whirred, as per usual, and Dagmar tried not rub at the spot on her neck where she had received the hormone dose. She'd never get used to the technology of this time, not fully – even now, she was struck at how _different_ things were. The memories of her childhood seemed like something from another lifetime…

"As usual, your readings are as within the expect ranges." The Andorian doctor made a show of sighing and scowling in disapproval. "Now get out of my office before I lose my last meal. Return in a week, if I can still stomach this affair."

"Of course." Dagmar nodded, not at all offended. Her doctor was a particularly grumpy man, as Andorians went. He dealt with the awkwardness of her treatment by being grumpier than usual, even to his own nurses.

Dagmar pondered her progress as she left the clinic and made her way home. Truthfully, she felt pretty awful. Her lower abdomen was tender and bloated, her moods were tending towards moping lately, and her breasts were tender enough that even the most lightly lined bras were uncomfortable. She slept poorly at best, and not at all at worst, assuming she could find a way to take the edge off her constant headaches. When Dagmar wasn't mopey, she was irritable – despite her best efforts, she'd snapped at Thelen the other day for no reason. There were bags under her eyes dark enough to be mistaken for very sloppily applied makeup, and her appetite was either non-existent or ravenous. It was a nightmare.

The hot-flashes, at least, were easy enough to deal with. All she had to do was ditch her bio-thermal clothing until it passed; as it turned out, living on an ice planet could be very convenient in that respect.

It doesn't matter, Dagmar told herself as she punched in the access code to her apartment's front door and stepped into the comparative warmth of her home. Just a little longer, and the whole thing would be done and over with. She could ship off the eggs and go back to being her normal self soon, and wouldn't that be a relief.

Still, Dagmar felt no small amount of trepidation when she remembered that an Andorian doctor with more theory than practical experience with humans was going to be shoving a needle into her ovaries… and there were three ways that could happen – through the vagina, the bladder, or just straight through her abdomen. None of those sounded particularly appealing, and the more Dagmar thought about it, the more anxious she felt. Anxiety, with her mood swings, quickly turned into something like panic and panic bled into irrational anger or depression more often than not.

It was just her hormones, making everything worse – Dagmar knew that, knew that it probably wasn't as bad as she was making it out to be, but damned if she wasn't terrified anyway.

She was scared enough to have asked Thelen to go with her to the appointment in question. Surprisingly, the security officer declined. It wasn't his place, he'd said, and then he'd mumbled an apology and something about Shral and foolishness, and then something about how the whole thing was a very inappropriate topic. His face had flushed a deep purple, and his antennae had been flicking and writhing with anxiety. The poor Andorian had been so uncomfortable that Dagmar had ended up apologizing profusely for even mentioning it.

A Human would have gone with her.

It was a stupid thought, but Dagmar couldn't quite get it out of her brain. It popped up when she lay awake at night, trying not to cringe at her colourful imagination. It skittered across her forebrain when she was trying to work and rapidly grew irritable and frustrated. It lurked in the back of her mind when she was trying to meditate.

A Human would have gone with her even if he had been uncomfortable. A Human would have understood how terrified she was.

Thelen didn't even want to hear about the procedure or why she was scared, his cultural taboos were so deeply ingrained. He grew flustered and short-tempered the one time Dagmar had tried to explain, and she'd avoided bringing it up since.

Shral… Dagmar hadn't really talked to Shral. She'd mentioned the date of the procedure, that she wouldn't be available to work then and such, and that she was nervous. It had been off-hand and vague, and Shral hadn't said much in response beyond acknowledging her comment. Still, he watched her more carefully than he had before the hormone treatments had started. He observed the tenderness of her movements, how she tried to avoid bending at the waist much because her lower abdomen was so sore, how she barely touched her food some days and couldn't seem to get enough on other days. He watched it all – and maybe Dagmar was going crazy, but sometimes she thought she could detect a faint note of concern in his manner.

Still, Shral said nothing.

Eventually, her own anxiety prompted Dagmar to finally, finally approach Shral mere days before the procedure was set to take place. She was a bundle of nerves when she didn't have her work to focus on, and in the darkest hours of the evening her imagination came up with scenarios that would put most horror movies to shame. Thelen couldn't overcome his cultural taboos, and Dagmar honestly couldn't find it in her to be angry with him for that, but she needed to be able to call on someone if something went wrong. Shral would just have to be that person.

Not, she rushed to reassure herself, that something would go wrong. It was just a precaution. Better safe than sorry and all that.

"Shral," She began hesitantly, approaching the aide discreetly as they both left the Embassy at the end of their respective shifts. It was early in the evening, but not so early that too many people lingered about. "I need to ask you something."

Shral paused for a moment, and then gestured for her to step into a side room with him – something for which Dagmar felt no small amount of gratitude. This would be an awkward conversation as it was, if the encounter with Thelen was any indication; it was better done in private than in a hallway.

"Speak." The aide's offer to hear her out was typical of Andorian interactions, taking charge of the conversation as the superior in rank. The familiarity of the interaction was surprisingly comforting.

"I'm going to- that is, the procedure," The translator began, watching the Andorian aide for signs of irritation or discomfort. "It's set for two days from now."

In the face of Shral's blank neutrality, discomfort might have been preferable. He gave absolutely no indication of understanding why she would approach him on the matter, and his tone was just edging towards the cooler temperatures as he prompted, "And?"

Better just get it over with, Dagmar told herself as she took a breath. "I'm… worried. Really, really worried. And…"

Shral said nothing. His antennae remained curved forwards slightly in polite interest, neutral and blank as a painter's virgin canvas. This was not especially encouraging at the best of times, but Dagmar found it particularly disheartening just at that moment. He really wasn't making this easy for her – and, worse, he didn't even realize it, most likely.

"Look," Dagmar forced herself to get on with her request already and stop prolonging this awkward encounter. She braced herself internally, closed her eyes, and said it in a rush, "If I need help –after, I mean- can I call you?"

Silence answered her, and the xenolinguist found herself cracking open an eyelid to find out why.

The expression that met her gaze was nearly incomprehensible. The body language of the aide was utterly neutral, loose in his dark leathers and very still, but his antennae flicked occasionally in agitation and his features were… surprised? Shocked? Dagmar wasn't sure, and that uncertainty made her even more anxious.

"This… procedure." Shral began carefully, as if tasting the word and finding it sour. His verdant eyes did not quite meet hers, but in his face she saw none of the irritation Thelen had shown her. That, at least, offered a small reprieve from her anxiety. "Frightens you?"

Dagmar nodded, struggling not to fidget with her gloves.

"I see."

And then, "We shall speak in two days."

The Terran woman nearly went boneless with relief as the aide all but swept out of the side-room.


End file.
